


The Full Moon Like Blood

by p1013



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Character Death, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Please Don't Hurt Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts, like most unexpected things, on a Tuesday. New York is the first city to be hit. Witnesses will tell reporters later that there was a huge wind, and the clouds parted like someone had pushed them aside. And then there were dark silhouettes of wings against the bright sun, casting the streets in shadow.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles is a vengeful angel and Derek is just trying to get home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a roar, and the heavenly bodies will be burned up and dissolved, and the earth and the works that are done on it will be exposed.”
> 
> 2 Peter 3:10

Derek ducks under the shadowed overhang of a parking garage exit as wings pass by, tossing leaves and forgotten papers into the air. He can see the trail they cut through the ash that hangs in the air, watches as it sifts down into the impressions his feet have left in the debris. He tries to quiet his breathing, taking slow, deep breaths until all he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears. He isn’t sure, but it’s felt like he’s been followed all day. Paranoia has been his constant companion since he came to the outskirts of the city. The angels like to keep a more active presence near the old metropolitan centers. They’re better able to pick off stragglers that way. But besides the occasional rush of wind and the feeling of eyes on his back, he hasn’t seen another living thing for the past two days. Sighing, he shifts the pack on his back and walks deeper into the parking garage.

Part of the structure has fallen in, with concrete and crushed cars taking up most of the back of the garage. There are dark char marks on the concrete, but everything is marked with soot these days, so Derek can’t tell if the building burnt down or was destroyed. Dim light filters in, catching on the ever-present ash and glinting off of broken safety glass. Derek thinks he sees bones dangling out of the wrecked cars, but it doesn’t faze him. He’s long since gotten used to the signs of death, especially in the cities, and especially in New York.

Finding a relatively undamaged corner of the garage, where it’s dark, but there’s just enough light to see, Derek takes his pack off and pulls out and lights a small can of Sterno. He’d found the gel fuel in an abandoned party store somewhere near Chicago and had stocked up. They’re good for when he needs a quick fire or there isn’t anything to burn nearby. With the firestorms that had come at the beginning, there isn’t much to burn anyway.

The asphalt is hard beneath him when he sits. He can feel a bruise starting to form already, but ignores it as he pulls out a well-worn and faded map. The blue light of the Sterno highlights the dark path he’s drawn from Wyoming all the way to New York City.

There’s not much left that defines NYC as the metropolitan giant it used to be. Times Square was the first place the angels hit. The newscasts showed winged figures holding giant balls of flame, which they cast down into the fleeing masses, leaving craters in the asphalt and nothing of the people that had been there. Then the Statue of Liberty. The Empire State Building. Wall Street. The East River. Everything had burned. The ashes had cast Toronto and Detroit into darkness for days. Until those cities started burning, too.

Derek runs his finger along the line of where he’s been. It takes him only seconds to follow a path that took almost a year to walk. A year filled with fear and uncertainty and a slowly growing sense of purpose as he drew closer and closer to New York City and his sister.

He folds up the map, puts it carefully away, and pulls out a bottle of water and dried venison. He’d taken a week in Wisconsin to hunt deer and smoke the meat, carefully packing it away. He is almost out of the tough meat, and while he knows losing the food source is going to make day-to-day life a little harder, he is more than ready to switch over to anything else. He chews on the jerky slowly, letting the gamey flavor fill his mouth as he considers his next move.

Laura had been living in lower Manhattan when the angels had arrived, and Derek is glad that he’d thought to write the address down before his phone lost power and he wasn’t able to look it up again. There hasn’t been electricity in any of the cities he’s passed through. With the exception of a hunting cabin he found with a gas generator, Derek has basically given up on being able to use anything that needs electricity to run. His phone was lost months ago, forgotten in some campsite, a lonely reminder of the world before everything had gone to flames.

Derek unrolls his sleeping bag and settles himself inside. The padding is worn. It’s still warm, even on the freezing concrete, but it does little to soften the surface. He knows he’ll wake up with bruises and a crick in his back that’s gotten worse over the last couple of months, but he’s almost used to it now. Pulling his pack closer, he pulls a bowie knife from a side pocket, and then shifts the bag until it’s under his head. 

Not the softest pillow in the world, he thinks, but it does the job.

He extinguishes the Sterno, then waits for it to cool before tucking it next to his pack so he can find it in the morning. As Derek shuts his eyes, exhaustion pulling him into sleep, he knows that this respite will be short, that danger is waiting in the manmade mountains where angels keep watch.

\---

_“We’ve lost communication with our London office. It seems like these winged creatures that most people are calling ‘angels’ have almost completely razed the city. The last we heard, the Thames and the Houses of Parliament are burning, as well as most of London. We’ll do what we can to keep information flowing, but with New York also under attack by these beings, CNN and its affiliates cannot guarantee that transmissions will continue.”_

\---

He wakes up in the darkness, eyes searching for stars that are hidden behind concrete and asphalt.

Derek misses the wide-open spaces of Wyoming. He’d gotten used to the spread of nature around him, mountains reaching towards the sky, forests cast like a blanket over the valleys below. In the littered streets of New York, with skyscrapers towering over him and concrete echoing back his every step, he feels crowded and paranoid. Under trees and the blue sky, he can breathe. Here, it’s like every pull of air into his lungs carries the weight of the people who used to walk these streets.

If – when – he finds Laura, he thinks he’ll go back to Wyoming, or maybe North Dakota. He knows he won’t stay here, not in this graveyard of a city. He misses living things around him, the plants and animals that made it easier to forget that the world was ending. That everything was slowly burning to the ground.

With his eyes closed, he can pretend that the hard concrete beneath his back is packed dirt in the Rockies, the wind that whistles through broken concrete and glass, just a breeze cutting through the thin branches of pine and maple. He does everything he can to try and forget where he is, if only for a moment, because it’s possibly the worst place to be.

He opens his eyes, scanning the garage, trying to see in what little light there is. He doesn’t sleep heavily, not any more. He’d passed out in a bivouac in Illinois, too close to Chicago, and had been attacked by a group of survivors looking to take his supplies. Since then, he hasn’t trusted anyone, even people he can’t see. 

\---

_The video is shaky, but shows a winged figure standing in the center of Times Square. The figure is speaking, but his voice is covered by the sounds of the crowd. After a moment, the figure spreads his wings, blocking out the sunlight, and raises his arms. Then the skies start raining fire._

_The video ends, stopped on the smiling figure._

\---

Morning comes slowly, with Derek waking another two times to make a cursory check of the garage. He waits until light starts peeking in through the entrance and the hole in the ceiling to start moving. Darkness keeps him safe at night, offers him a place to hide, but he can’t travel well in the pitch-blackness of the city.

Before he leaves, Derek reaches into his pack and starts cataloging his supplies. It’s a habit he started when he first began his trek across the country, and there’s something comforting about cataloging the things that have kept him alive this long. He has a change of clothes, patched and worn thin at the elbows and knees. There’s the emergency thermal blanket that got him through winter on the plains, and the sleeping bag he’d stolen from a Dick’s in Illinois. The large box of waterproof matches he found in Iowa and has been carefully rationing. The large bowie knife he had with him in Wyoming, and the smaller switchblade he keeps tucked in the top of his boot. His Glock, the pistol his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday, a gun cleaning kit, and three and a half boxes of ammo. His hunting bow is unstrung and tied to his pack, and he has a strange mix of manufactured and hand-made arrows in a quiver he’d sewn onto the pack somewhere between the border of Wyoming and South Dakota when its strap had broken. Then food – the dwindling supply of jerky, some dried fruit strips, a couple energy bars, a half-eaten chocolate bar – another bottle of water, and an empty that he needs to fill the next time he finds water.

He carefully packs it away, putting the sleeping bag and Sterno back into the case, his map folded up and slid delicately between the back of the bag and everything else. The Glock, he sticks into the back of his jeans. He doesn’t like using the gun – ammo is too hard to find and he rations his carefully – but it’s better than his bow or knives in the tight corners of New York.

Derek shifts his pack onto his back, rolling his shoulders to settle everything more firmly. He closes the straps around his chest and waist and starts heading towards the exit of the garage. There is a quick scurry of falling rocks, and Derek freezes. He sees the last few pieces of gravel fall down the pile of rubble in the corner, then feels his heart clench in his chest when the thin light that had been coming through the hole in the ceiling disappears. There’s the rush of wings, and Derek’s hand goes for his gun.

\---

_“And he sayeth unto them, Why are ye fearful, Oh ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.”_

_“Oh, ye of little faith!” The preacher raises his arms to the sky, “Can you not see that this is the Lord’s work among us? That he seeks to cleanse the world of sin and suffering, to bring the faithful into His arms? If you have but the faith of a mustard seed, you can move mountains! You can see angels fly!”_

_Eyes closed in rapture, he doesn’t seem to notice that the sanctuary is empty and burning around him._

\---

The angel is crouched down on the pile of rubble, muted light casting the spread of his golden wings in a halo that seems to illuminate the darkness around him. He’s wearing a pair of leather pants and nothing else. They’re covered in sooty stains and tears, with hints of pale skin peaking through. He raises his head, and Derek catches a hint of brown hair and eyes before the angel speaks.

“Well, shit. This is a mess, huh?” He stands and brushes his hands against his pants, leaving another black stain against the dark leather. He toes at a bit of broken concrete, sending it skittering towards Derek. The angel starts walking towards Derek, who reaches back and pulls his Glock out from his waistband. There are fifteen rounds in the magazine, and he hopes he doesn’t have to use them.

“Stop.” He growls, the gun aimed not at the angel, but at the delicate joint where his wing arches overhead. Derek’s a good enough shot that he can hit it, knows he can do it from experience. The angel stops, then holds his hands up, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, buddy, I’m not here for that.” His mouth cocks into a half-grin, and he gestures slightly with his hands. “We’re not all out for blood, you know. Well…” He pauses, frowns. “Okay, maybe you don’t know that, what with the fires, and the raining death and destruction and whatnot. But really,” he takes another tentative step closer, and Derek feels his finger spasm against the trigger, a breath away from pulling, “I’m just here to talk. I’ve been following you since you got to the edge of the city. I could’ve killed you at any time in the last three days. Why would I try now?”

Derek tightens his hand on the gun, then slowly lets it drop.

“What do you want?” He doesn’t holster the weapon, keeps it ready, just in case.

“Like I said, I just want to talk.” He puts his hands down. “I am called Saphtiel.” He bows slightly, ducking his head down and spreading his wings in a practiced sweep. “But my friends call me Stiles.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “How lonely sits the city that was full of people!”
> 
> Lamentations 1:1

"You can put the gun away." Stiles - what kind of angel uses a _nickname_? Derek thinks there must be something in scripture against it - steps off the rubble and walks towards Derek. This close, Derek can see that the gold of the angel's wings are echoed in small flecks in his eyes, making them more amber than brown.

“I think I’ll just keep it where it is, if it’s all the same to you.” He smirks, lets the familiar weight of the pistol in his hand calm him.

"Alright, that’s fine. Just... don’t shoot me or anything. Just listen." Stiles gestures towards the entrance of the garage, his wings fluttering in what Derek thinks might be a nervous tick. "But we’ve got to move. We're too close to the main aerie. It's only about three blocks to the central host for all of the North American east coast."

Derek tries not to let the information shake him, though the thought of that many angels, this close, sends a spike of fear through his gut. One or two angels can be life-threatening. A whole host is suicidal. But he’s not done here, not yet.

“Moving isn’t an option.” He grunts, shifting the weight of his pack with a shrug of his shoulder. “There’s somewhere I have to be.”

“What?” Stiles' voice cracks, disbelief written in every line of his body. “Are you insane? Where do you have to _be_ in _New York_? This place is just a giant graveyard now. Everybody knows that, unless they’re already dead. And then it doesn’t matter.”

“My sister lived - lives here.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Derek watches as a blush appears on the angel’s face and moves down until his whole torso is flush. He shifts his weight from one foot to the next, his wings spreading slightly and settling closer against his back, as he coughs and runs a hand through his short hair. He looks towards the entrance again, frowning slightly.

"Look, I know it's not what you want to hear, but survivors? There aren't any. Not here, not with how fast everything happened." Stiles lets his arm drop to his side, hand clenched into a tight fist. "Not with how fast we attacked."

Derek knows, has known, that what Stiles is saying is true. He saw the devastation on the news a year ago, can see the remains of a once great city spread before him like offerings in a tomb. He feels grief and fear like a giant knot in his stomach and recognizes that it's part of what's kept him moving east. It's anchored him, kept him focused on getting to New York, but he knows that if he stops, that anchor will pull him down until he's drowning.

He _knows_ that New York is a wasteland, that his chances of finding Laura - dead or alive - are slim, but he can't accept it, not until he knows for sure.

"I don't care. You want to talk, you'll have to follow. I'm leaving."

Derek resettles the pack one more time, then walks towards the entrance of the garage, takes a quick look out into the ash-laden gloom of early morning, and leaves, gun still drawn.

He’s half-way down the block when he hears a rush of wind, and suddenly, there’s a muscled arm pressed against his throat, shoving him into the unyielding stone of the building behind him. His pack digs uncomfortably into his back as he struggles to breathe past Stiles’ forearm. Light is streaming from Stiles’ eyes, his wings fully spread out and blocking the sunlight.

“Are you fucking stupid?” He growls, letting the width of his arm shove Derek’s chin up, pressing more of Stiles' forearm into Derek's throat. Stiles’ eyes grow brighter, and the light spreads across his face until it’s all Derek can do to look him. The halo of light that is pouring off the angel burns, and Derek has to shut his eyes. He can still see a silhouette behind his lids, a shadow surrounded by the pink hue of blood through his skin.

Derek waits until the light is gone, until all he sees is darkness and floating spots of white behind his eyelids. Stiles is still angry, but his wings are held carefully forward, blocking Derek from view.

“Do you think angels _walk_ around here? Do you think I can be seen trailing you, in the air or on the ground, and not draw attention? I just _told you_ ,” Stiles’ eyes flash, “New York City. Is. A. Graveyard. No one lives here except for angels. There are no humans alive in New York.” He pulls his arm back, shoving away from Derek.

Derek rubs a hand over his throat, breathing past the bruise he can feel forming.

“You’re exaggerating.” He steps away from the building and fights the urge to check his pack.

Stiles lets out a huff of air and turns his back to Derek, wings still spread behind him. He glances up and down the street nervously, then checks the sky.

“I wish I was,” Stiles looks over his shoulder at Derek. “I really do, but we went through every street, every building, every hiding place you could think of and quite a few you can’t.”

Stiles closes his eyes, tilts his head back.

“'The harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are the angels.'” He lets his head drop to his chest, still speaking. “'Just as the weeds are gathered and burned with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will gather out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all law breakers, and throw them into the fiery furnace'.”

“Only,” and now he turns to face Derek, “He told us that you were _all_ the cause of sin, that the righteous had fallen, and that we should reap the whole field and not just the weeds. There is no one left alive in this city. No one.” One side of his mouth lifts into a dark, sad smile. “Except you, that is.”

Derek can’t breathe. He feels rage building in his chest, mixing with the grief and fear he’s been carrying since Wyoming. The Glock is still heavy in his hand, and he raises it towards the angel, hand steady.

"You're a monster."

Stiles laughs.

“Go ahead and shoot.” He spreads his arms, leaving his chest uncovered. His wings are open behind him, the careful tracery of feathers and bones an easy target. “I won’t stop you. I deserve it. I can’t argue that I don’t. _Thou shalt not kill_.” He tilts his head towards the sky. “Even if the big guy breaks His rules, I know my sins.”

Derek clenches his teeth, can feel tears pricking behind his eyes. He moves forward, until the gun presses hard against the bare skin above the angel’s heart, and fires.

\---

_He's five and a half, wearing a brand new, bright blue-and-red-and-yellow backpack with A-B-C on the front (he can read them all by himself, can read_ all _the letters, which Mama says makes him a very smart boy), and it's the first day of school. The bus stop is just around the corner from home, but he feels nervous, like his tummy is full of Jell-o (the green kind, the kind he hates the most)._

_Laura is standing with him, a whole foot taller, and holding his hand. Mama made them do it, and it kinda makes Derek feel like a baby, but it also makes the Jell-o feeling less green and more red (the best flavor, ever). He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s a big boy, now, and big boys aren’t afraid of anything, ever._

_"It's okay, Der." Laura squeezes his hand quick and strong. "School's fun, you'll see."_

_“‘M not scared.” He mumbles, pouting. Laura just smiles._

_She stops holding his hand when they get on the bus, but she sits next to him in the brown plastic seat over the wheel, and walks him to his classroom filled with strangers, and, even though he’ll never tell anyone, it makes him feel safe._

_Laura always makes him feel safe._

\---

Derek feels a rush of satisfaction as the gun recoils in his hand. Blood is pouring from the angel's body, leaking down his chest and pooling at his feet. Powder burns spread out in a dark ring around the wound.

Derek raises his eyes. Stiles just looks resigned and enormously sad.

That's when Derek notices the wound healing. The burns are turning pink, then the pale color of Stiles' skin. The jagged hole where the bullet entered is already almost the size of a pin. In seconds, nothing remains of the wound except the smell of gunpowder in the air, the trail of glistening wet blood on Stiles’ body, and the sting of recoil still echoing down Derek's arm.

"How?" Derek is stunned, his head and ears ringing from the gunshot and the impossibility of what he's seeing. "I've killed angels before. I've seen them die. You don't heal, not like that."

"Do you know how hard it is for an angel to fall?" Stiles asks, ignoring Derek and trailing a finger over the freshly healed skin on his chest, smearing blood in small circles.

"And I don't mean in the fall-from-grace sense. I mean actually, _literally_ , falling.” He stares at his fingers as they trace over his chest. “Every part of your body screams out to catch the wind, to open your wings and soar. You have to hold them _just right_ , too, or the wind will force them open on their own. It took me four tries before I figured that out." He rolls his shoulders.

"I can't die. I've tried."

"Why are you here?" Derek lets the gun fall to his side

"Like I said, to talk. To try and understand. To somehow make up for all the evil that we’ve done, that I’ve done." His eyes meet Derek’s, fierce and just starting to glow. “To make this right.”

"And why me? Because I was the first person you saw and _didn't_ murder?" The rage is still boiling in Derek's gut, still struggling to break free and destroy something.

"Because I couldn't ignore that what we've been doing feels wrong, and there's something about you that, I don't know, gives me hope." Stiles seems just as confused as Derek, just as uncertain of what an angel is doing with a human.

"If you are going to follow me, then you need to understand a few things." Derek holsters his gun, reminds himself he'll need to clean it tonight.

"My sister lived close to here. I'm going to her apartment, and I'm finding out what happened to her. I will keep looking for her until I do. It doesn't matter how far I have to go, or how dangerous it is. I've already traveled over more than half of this country, I'm not stopping now." He points at Stiles. "You slow me down, you get in my way, you show _any_ sign of turning on me? I don't care how hard I have to try, how deep I have to cut, or how long it takes, I will find a way to kill you."

Stiles nods and reaches his hand out to Derek.

"If it's in my power, I will do whatever it takes to help you find your sister and keep you both safe and alive."

Derek reaches out and shakes the angel's hand. There's a red smear of blood against his fingers when they let go.

"We need to move," Stiles says, looking up again. "Someone will have heard the gunshot and be heading this way, probably more than one. I'll do what I can to try and keep them off your tail, but we need to hurry if you're gonna make it out of here alive. Even with the weird healing thing, I'm no match for three or four angels."

He spreads his wings, and, with a strong downward sweep, starts to lift into the air.

"You never told me your name." He shouts down as he starts to rise.

"Derek."

"We'll, Derek," Stiles hits the D extra hard, "consider me your guardian angel."

There's a flash of white teeth before Stiles is disappearing into the thick ash that hangs in the air.

Derek doesn't know if the shiver that goes down his spine as the angel disappears is from fear or anger or something else entirely, but he shoves it down, readjusts his pack, and starts walking, sticking to the shadows and alleys as best he can.

He feels watched the whole way.

\---

_The phone rings four times before she picks up._

_“Der, you do NOT need to keep calling.”_

_“Where are you?” He growls, hastily sorting through his clothes for the most durable pieces he can find, then stuffing them into his pack._

_“I’m still in New York, but I’m leaving tonight. A group of us are going to try to head north, out of the city. It’s insane here, I can’t even begin to describe it.” Her voice is steady, but it breaks at the end._

_“Just get out of there. Be safe. I’m heading your way.”_

_Laura laughs._

_“Baby bro, I don’t need you to protect me, I’ll be fi-”_

_The line cuts out._

_Laura doesn’t pick up again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verse that Stiles quotes is Matthew 13:39-42. The Bible has got some DARK imagery, let me tell you.
> 
> Thanks for all of the hits, kudos, and comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Through the wrath of the LORD of hosts the land is scorched, and the people are like fuel for the fire.”
> 
> Isaiah 9:19

It takes Derek another twenty minutes to walk to Laura’s apartment. It’s not far - if he’d been able to walk down the street normally, he’d have been there in at least half the time - but Stiles’ announcement that there is a host of angels almost directly on top of them has Derek moving through alleys and ducking into entryways, careful to go only when he’s absolutely sure he can’t be seen. The thin light seeping through the ever-present ash makes it hard for him to accurately judge whether there’s anyone overhead, but he trusts to his instincts and eventually makes it to the address he’d hastily scribbled down months ago.

Laura’s apartment is located in a converted brownstone, and Derek rushes up the steps, feeling vulnerable on the uncovered stoop. The door to her building is locked, which Derek finds both frustrating and kind of funny. He can’t risk breaking the glass, not after the gunshot earlier, so he hurries back down the steps, into the street, and ducks down the alley closest to the apartment. There’s a small service road that goes behind the line of apartments, and he sighs in relief when he sees the rusty, but still intact, fire escape that zigzags up the side of the building.

The ladder leading from the fire escape to the street is well out of his reach. He crouches down, then jumps, pushing hard against the concrete. He misses the ladder by a foot, easy. Jumping up to pull the ladder down is clearly not going to work. There’s a dumpster nearby, but, even though it has wheels, it’s full. Between the smell that is creeping out from the top and the sheer weight of the thing, Derek knows he can’t move it, and he’s not going to risk falling in.

As he sees it, his best bet is to have someone boost him up or try to run up the wall and push off into a dyno. The first option would require him to get Stiles’ attention, and he has no idea where the angel is right now. The second risks making a huge noise and possible injuey should he miss and fall.

He decides the dyno is best. He still doesn’t trust the angel, and Derek’s not willing to wait out in the open until Stiles deigns to show up.

He takes a couple running starts, his worn boots grabbing onto the red brick of the building and pushing him up. His pack pulls him off center the first few times, but by the fifth try, he has the pacing and balance down.

With a quick full-body shake and a deep breath, Derek gets a running start, presses his boot hard against the brick and reaches out towards the rungs of the ladder. The metal bites hard into his hands, rust flaking off, and he’s losing his grip, his hands are starting to slip, he feels them slide, then go, and suddenly, there are arms around him and he’s flying.

His first reaction is straight out panic. He thrashes, trying to break the tight hold around his arms.

“Jesus, _stop_.” Stiles’ voice is loud in Derek’s ear, and he struggles once more, then freezes.

“My name’s not Jesus,” he quips half-heartedly, more focused on how there’s no ground beneath his feet. 

Flying is strange. Derek's heart is racing with the push and pull of Stiles’ wings against the air. They’re bobbing slightly as Stiles hovers, and Derek can feel the muscles in Stiles’ chest tense and release as they help support the giant wings that are keeping them both airborne.

“Which floor?” Stiles asks, starting to breathe heavily. “I can’t keep this up for long. What do you _eat_ even? Bricks? You weigh a fuckton.”

“Top.” Derek looks towards the fire escape. “Just get me close, and I can jump down.”

Stiles grunts, and then Derek feels his stomach drop out from under him as Stiles powers up into the air. It takes only seconds for him to climb twenty feet, and Derek has to fight the urge to gag as his equilibrium is thrown entirely out of kilter. Then Stiles is hovering again, and Derek feels the arms wrapped around his chest start to give way.

“Wait, just-” and then he’s dropping. The grating of the fire escape cuts into his hands and knees as he lands gracelessly.

“Sorry, dude. It’s hard enough hovering when it’s just me, I couldn’t hold it much longer.” Stiles at least has the decency to look embarrassed. Derek glares at him all the same, wiping rust and a little blood off his hands.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, then pulls the knife out of his boot and jimmys the window open. He pulls the screen out, then slips inside.

He’s lucky that Laura lives in the back apartment. His lock picking skills are nonexistent, and he has even less finesse when it comes to breaking and entering. The few times he’s had to break in anywhere - an abandoned house in Iowa during a blizzard, a grocery store in the middle of nowhere when he’d been unable to find food for three days, a school in Ohio when he’d simply needed to hide - it’s been quick and dirty and not all that subtle. 

Stiles lands gracefully on the fire escape, then sticks his head through the window. His wings are spread out behind him, tucked tight to his shoulders, like he’s only seconds away from climbing in after Derek.

“Do you want me to come in?”

Derek pauses, already halfway through the main room. Laura’s apartment isn’t big, just a living room, with a small bedroom and kitchen off of it. He’d been here once, a couple of years ago. The place is filled with clutter, a habit that Laura’s had all of her life, and it makes his chest ache now, like she might walk through the front door at any moment, laughing. It's not a space the angel would fit into, literally, and it's not one Derek wants Stiles in, either. It feels like a betrayal. 

“Just... Stay there. Keep watch or something. I won’t be long.” Derek turns, then starts rifling through the papers scattered on the coffee table. There are unpaid bills, notes hastily scribbled on old receipts and scraps of paper, but nothing that points to where she might have gone. He gives up finding anything in the mess after a few minutes of careful inspection.

Moving to the kitchen, he wrinkles his nose at the smell. Even with the door closed, the stink of rotting food seeps out of the fridge and into the room. He resolutely ignores the dark liquid staining the floor.

On the counter, next to a very dead houseplant, is a dusty pad of paper with a messy scrawl of handwriting across it. Derek picks it up, then frowns.

_Tupper Lake. Cabin. Be safe._

Derek tries to breathe past the flood of relief that clogs his throat.

He knows where Laura is, knows exactly how to get there. After almost a year of walking, running, hiding, of heading towards uncertainty, he feels like he _finally_ has something concrete to hold on to. He grabs the note, needing the tiny connection to his sister more than he's willing to admit, and turns back towards the main room and the window where Stiles is still looming. 

“C’mon, let’s go.” Derek wants to push the angel out of the window frame, but Stiles has moved back, wings flared, before Derek is able to even get close enough to touch.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Stiles asks, scanning the hazy skies above. “We really shouldn’t be hanging out here much longer, it’s just asking for trouble.”

“Yeah. We need to get out of the city. She’s gone to Tupper Lake.” Derek starts heading down the fire escape. It rattles under his feet, bits of rust falling into the street below. Stiles climbs onto the railing at the top and jumps, his wings snapping out to catch the air and hold him steady. He glides to the ground, gold wings glinting in the hazy light, and Derek is reminded of leaves falling in autumn.

He shakes off the sentimental thought as he lowers the ladder to the street, dropping to the asphalt when it doesn’t extend all the way down. Stiles walks over, his bare feet loud on the pavement.

“Where’s Tupper Lake?” He asks, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Derek readjusts his pack, then starts walking towards the street.

“North of here, about three hundred miles.”

Stiles grins widely, his whole face lighting up.

“Awesome! I can get us there in a day, maybe less if the wind’s with us. C’mon.” The angel opens his arms, then twitches his hands in a “come here” motion when Derek stares blankly back at him.

“Are you serious?” Derek asks, checking left and right down the empty street before crossing it quickly. Stiles jogs after him.

“Of course I’m serious. You want to find your sister, she’s in Tupper Lake, it’ll be way faster to fly. Makes perfect sense.”

“You could barely hover with me for two minutes, what makes you think I’d trust you to fly me three hundred miles?” Derek ducks into the overhang of a storefront, the glass broken and crunching under his feet. He frowns when Stiles walks over the glass. Derek can see blood starting to pool under the angel’s feet, but if Stiles notices it, he doesn’t give any sign.

“That doesn’t count,” he scoffs. “Hovering is, like, super hard. It takes a lot of tiny muscles that I don’t use most of the time when I’m flying. I could carry you to Kentucky and back if I wanted to. Upstate is _nothing_.”

The pool of blood under Stiles’ feet is growing in size, and it’s making Derek uncomfortable. Something about the sheer disregard the angel is showing towards the injury makes Derek’s chest ache. He walks out from the overhang, heading down the street, trying to do anything to get Stiles off of the glass without letting the angel know.

“I’ll think about it,” Derek says, “but for now, let’s just get out of New York.”

Stiles nods in agreement. Derek tries to ignore the bloody footprints that trail behind them, fading as they walk.

\---

_  
It’s 5:30 am, and Derek pushes the door to his cabin open quietly. It’s still pitch dark out, and the Milky Way is tracing a delicate strip of light across the sky. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the bite of the cold air in his lungs. It tingles against the bare skin of his face, bringing a warm rush of blood to his cheeks._

_In the distance, he can hear wolves calling._

_This is the first scientific expedition he’s helped lead. He’d been a guide for camping trips before, making sure groups of overly excited teens from Chicago or Los Angeles wouldn’t get lost or fall into a ditch somewhere and die. He’d been pretty good at it, though the constant bickering and hormonal outbursts wore on him long before the trips were over. Still, when one of the kids had shown an extra interest in the wilderness or tracking or how to build a fire with a battery and steel wool, he’d smiled and enjoyed the teaching moment._

_This group of biologists, though, is an entirely different kind of challenge. A few of them look more like mountain men than doctoral candidates, and he has to fight them more often than not. Especially when it comes to tracking the local pack. They cite studies they’d read, pointing to stretches of forest on their careful maps as prime den sites. Derek fights the urge to scowl, humors them a few times, which ends with the biologists scratching their heads and scratching the sites off their maps, and then he leads them to the site that the pack’s been using for the last three or four seasons._

_Most of the time, though, he’s not really needed. Besides a couple treks to set up blinds and to scout out hunting sites, Derek finds himself at a loss of what to do with himself. So, for the first time in years, he’s able to just sit back and relax._

_There is something calming about Wyoming. He usually feels restless, like there’s something wriggling beneath his skin, making him feel like he needs to move almost constantly. He’s never settled anywhere for long, moving around the country ever since finishing college. But out here, in the mountains and the forests, with the winding rivers that seem to cut through everything, he finally feels_ still _._

_The mornings are his favorite. It’s like the world is being reborn, the sun cresting over the tops of the mountains, casting the valley where their camp is in shades of rose and gold._

__If there is a heaven, _he thinks,_ this is it.

\---

It’s almost an hour later, and Derek is having to dodge more and more craters in the asphalt. He’s been following Broadway north, towards Times Square, and the closer he gets to it, the worse the city looks. Scattered across the streets are the burnt out husks of cars, empty skeletons of aluminum and melted plastic. There are suitcases abandoned along the way, charred on the edges and black with ash.

There are signs of people fleeing everywhere, but no signs of _people_. No bodies, no bones, no scraps of clothing. When he thinks back on his time in the city, besides the bodies in the parking garage, he hasn’t seen any. It leaves him feeling uneasy.

Stiles had taken to the air a few minutes after Derek had started seriously trekking north, mumbling something about keeping watch. Derek hadn’t really been paying attention, more focused on moving carefully through the streets. He’s seen the shadowed forms of angels flying overhead, and he still isn’t sure if the wings overhead were friend or foe.

He’s about to cross the street, bearing west, when he hears the rush of wings and a panicked voice calling his name. He turns to see Stiles landing about fifty yards behind him. The angel stumbles, dropping to a knee, and waves Derek off the street.

“Hide, you idiot!” He hisses, the warning echoing quietly, and Derek can see that the angel’s eyes are wide, light creeping out on the edges, more white than gold.

Derek runs. The ground is slick under his feet, ash making the soles of his boots fight for purchase. He ducks into an alley, then quickly takes his pack off and slides under the wreckage of some sort of sedan. It’s only a moment later when he hears more wings, the sound filling the empty streets until it’s a roar in his ears. He fights to pull his supplies under the relative safety of the car, but his pack snags and refuses to budge. He can’t risk breaking his bow, so he leaves it next to the car, hoping it’ll look like any other piece of detritus in the street. His heart is racing, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle his panting breaths.

“Saphtiel,” the voice is filled with warmth. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone west!”

“No, I decided to stick around for a bit, see the sites, get a postcard. Commemorative license plate. You know. Tourist-y things.” Stiles laughs awkwardly. “Lochemel, how are you? What a surprise! I thought you were upstairs, visiting the Big Guy.” 

Derek hopes that the other angel doesn’t hear the panic creeping in around the edges of Stiles’ voice.

“I’ve just returned, and you know He doesn’t like it when you call him that. He asked after you. Says you haven’t been to visit in months.”

Derek army crawls towards the front of the car, trying to see out into the street. He blinks ash out of his eyes and tries to ignore the grit of it in his mouth and nose.

Stiles is standing in the middle of the street, a group of five angels across from him. The one in the front is holding Stiles’ arm in a friendly grasp, his hand clasped around the other angel’s bicep. Lochemel, Derek assumes, has tanned skin and dark hair, reminiscent of Spain or Mexico. He’s wearing leather pants like Stiles’, but they’re less tattered and stained. His wings are a wash of black behind him, the tips trailing in the ash on the ground.

“I’ve missed you, Stiles.” The dark angel says, mouth lifted in a half-smile. Stiles’ lips curve up in response.

“Me, too. I’ve just been... You know how I feel about all of this.” Stiles looks away from Lochemel. “It makes it hard for me to see Him.”

Lochemel lets go of Stiles’ arm, his hand dropping to his side in a fist.

“I told you, Saphtiel. I don’t want to talk about this.” The dark angel frowns. “What _are_ you doing here?”

“Remembering, Loch.” Stiles takes a step back. “What it was like, before all of this.”

Lochemel flaps his wings, kicking up a wave of ash. Stiles takes another step back, his face pale and drawn.

“This is all that’s left, Saphtiel. Just ash and ruin. Let it go.” His eyes are streaming light, and he spreads his wings to their full span. Derek shudders at the sight.

Stiles flares his wings, then watches silently as the group of angels takes to the air, Lochemel leaving last. The golden angel waits for long minutes. When he turns and starts walking towards the car that Derek is still stuffed under, Derek finally pulls himself out from under the wreck.

“Are you okay?” Stiles’ hands quest over his chest, brushing ash from his clothes. “That was close, I didn’t realize that there was a patrol near here. We’re lucky that I knew who they were, or that could’ve gone _terribly_.”

Derek pulls himself away from the angel and picks his bag up, shaking the ash from it.

“If you still think you can fly, let’s go.” Derek shrugs the pack on, then walks forward until his chest is almost touching Stiles’ bare one. The angel’s arms are warm and strong as they wrap around him.

“Alright.” Derek can hear the hesitation, the uncertainty in Stiles’ voice. “You ready?”

Derek nods and braces himself. With a strong shove, Stiles launches into the air, wings spreading wide as they catch the air, lifting them up with smooth, powerful strokes.

New York falls away, awash in ash. Derek watches the winding path of the Hudson, watches as the city disappears behind them, watches the golden wings flashing as they carry him towards his sister.

He tries to ignore the strength of the arms around him, the warmth that seeps from Stiles’ chest into his own, the steady beat of wings that lulls him into a half-sleep. Derek feels his eyes close, tries to fight sleep, but as they clear the edge of the city, following the Hudson north, he slips into the deepest sleep he’s had in a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lochemel means “Warrior of God,” which is a nod to the meaning of the name Scott. Just in case there was any confusion on who Stiles was talking to.
> 
> I also want to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who's been reading this, leaving kudos, commenting, and bookmarking! You guys make my day, every time I see those counter go up. <3 You are what keeps me motivated to write when the words just won't come. Much love to you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Your ways and your deeds have brought this upon you. This is your doom, and it is bitter; it has reached your very heart.”
> 
> Jeremiah 4:18

Derek wakes to the feeling of ice cold water biting into his face. It stings, and he tries to turn away from it, but there’s nowhere to hide. His eyes snap open to see rain falling in sheets around him and Stiles. Stiles’ face is stoic, but his eyes are burning with light. Derek can feel the angel’s arms trembling where they clasp Derek tight to his chest. His golden wings are sodden and moving sluggishly through the wet air. When a sudden gust of wind hits them, Derek sees Stiles’ wings take the force, then crumple against it, sending them veering wildly.

“We need to land!” Derek shouts over the roaring of the wind. Stiles only nods, then starts to dive towards the ground. Derek’s stomach rushes into his throat, and he grabs for Stiles’ arms, his hands slipping against cold, wet skin. They’re both drenched, Derek’s hair and clothes plastered to his body. He feels the cold seeping into his bones and tries to stop himself from panicking.

The ground beneath them is covered in thick forest, and as far as Derek can tell in the storm, they’re well outside of New York City now. Without the sun, though, he has no idea what time it is or what direction they’ve been traveling in. He hopes Stiles has a good sense of direction, or they may be completely screwed. He’d rather not be lost in the Adirondacks or killed in a thunderstorm. He tries to calm down and focus on the forest below them, looking for a safe place to land. He finds one blessedly quick and lets go of Stiles’ arm, pointing towards the open space.

“There!” He can’t be sure if his voice carries over the storm, but Stiles corrects his course and starts heading towards the opening in the trees. As they get closer, Derek is able to see a lake, the surface roiling with the rain and wind. He thinks he sees a building nestled into the treeline, but then the wind smashes into them, and they’re tumbling out of the sky and into the water.

It’s ice cold, and the shock strips the air out of Derek’s lungs. He’s disoriented for a moment, but lightning flashes overhead, and he’s surfacing as fast as he can.

His head breaks the surface, and he pulls in a shaky breath, then starts searching for the shore. The water is churning around him, splashing into his eyes and mouth. He coughs, shakes the water out of his eyes and starts swimming. He’s gone a few feet from where they hit the water when he realizes that Stiles still hasn’t surfaced. He stops, then looks back, trying to see if there’s any sign of the angel. Besides the rain and wind, the surface of the lake is unbroken. Derek thinks he catches a flash of gold, then even that is gone.

For a second, he hesitates, looking again towards the shore. _They’ve killed millions_ , he thinks. Then Derek thinks about Stiles’ wings, of how much they must weigh waterlogged, of how long they have been flying to get outside of the city. Remembers Stiles standing before a crowd of angels as Derek lay in hiding, protecting him even though allowing him to be captured would have been so easy. 

Derek dives. The water stings his eyes when he opens them, and the pitch blackness of the lake makes his chest clench in fear that he's not going to be _able_ to find Stiles, even if he wants to. Lightning flashes overhead again, and there's a burst of gold almost directly beneath him. Derek kicks his legs, driving himself downward, lungs burning, until his hands brush silky feathers and cold skin, and then he's dragging Stiles' limp body towards the surface, his muscles screaming under their combined weight.

They break the surface of the lake, and Derek pulls an aching breath into his chest. The cold air bites into his lungs, but the sweet taste of oxygen and adrenaline gives him a burst of strength. Stiles is unconscious, and Derek has to wrestle the angel's limp body until he's got his arms looped under Stiles' armpits, his wings pressed tightly between their bodies. It feels like it takes an eternity to swim to shore, the waves and wind beating against them. Derek almost loses Stiles a few times, the cumbersome bulk of the angel's body making it difficult to keep a firm grip on him in the storm. When Derek finally feels his feet hit ground, feels Stiles start to drag against the rocky bottom of the lake, he lets out a shaky gasp of relief.

He's shivering when he pulls Stiles out of the lake and onto the shore. He drops the angel, not exactly gently, onto the rocky beach. When he falls to his knees next to Stiles, his pack bangs painfully against his back and legs, and Derek starts to laugh that it's still there at all. A few moments later, Stiles starts coughing, and a torrent of water rushes out of his mouth, mixing with rain and bile.

"Welcome to the party," Drek laughs, and he thinks the shock might be making him giddy. Either that or he really gets off on endangering his life. When Stiles finally stops vomiting up water, Derek waves towards the house sitting further into the forest. 

"If you can walk, we've got a place to hole up, at least until the storm passes."

Stiles groans and rolls onto his hands and knees. His wings are sodden weights trailing behind him, and the right is bent at an odd angle.

"I can walk," he says, his voice raspy. "But we're going to be grounded for a bit until my wing heals. Bones take longer." He pushes himself upright, then stumbles as he stands. Derek rushes to get his shoulder under Stiles' arm, and together, the shuffle their way towards the dark house nestled in the trees.

There's a porch surrounding the building, and there are windows spread across the entire face of the house looking out over the lake. The front door has panes of glass on the upper half, and Derek is extremely glad that the owners didn't take the time to put in a proper deadbolt. He breaks the pane closest to the doorknob, then weaves his arm inside, unlocking the door.

"C'mon," he says, holding the door wide as Stiles angles his wings in through the entryway.

With the door shut - even with the broken pane - the sound of the wind dies down to almost nothing, and the rain pattering against the many windows is soothing rather than terrifying. It's almost pitch black inside, but Derek is able to fumble his way around until his eyes adjust, and he finds a fireplace tucked into the center of the house. There's dry wood next to it and safety matches, and pretty soon he's able to get a blaze started.

Stiles has unceremoniously flopped himself down on the large white leather couch that takes up most of the room. He's lying on his front, and his wings are spread out over the back of the couch and trailing on the floor. There's a puddle of water forming underneath him, but Derek doesn't think the angel cares. He thinks he hears snoring.

Derek takes the opportunity to unpack. His sleeping bag is drenched. He sets it as close to the fireplace as he dares, hoping that it'll dry out before they have to leave. His bow has snapped, and he tosses the broken pieces into the blaze. He makes a mental note to replace it if he can. His quiver is still attached, but empty. The map that he's tracked his entire journey on is a mess of smeared ink and stains, and it soon joins the smoking bow.

Thankfully, the rest of his gear is no worse for wear. His clothes join the sleeping bag spread out before the fire. He slowly chews on the last of his jerky, then stands and starts exploring the house.

Whoever lived here before the angels came was clearly wealthy. The house is filled with top end electronics, expensive looking artwork, and it seems like every countertop in the place is made of white marble. The floors are solid wood, and though they're dusty now, Derek can tell that they would only need a little care before they would go to a high gloss.

He heads upstairs and finds a wide loft. The chimney cuts through the center of the room, radiating heat throughout the floor. He can see the shadowed entry of what is either a bathroom or a walk-in closet when lightning flashes outside.  
In the center of the room is the biggest bed he's ever seen in his life. The comforter is covered in dust, but when he throws it to the side, the blankets underneath are clean and smell like home. He buries his nose in them and considers never moving again. But he's still wet and cold, and he can feel the water sinking into the bed. He drags himself up off the bed, and walks towards the bathroom. It's still dark, but he's able to find towels. He dries off, wincing at the dark stain he leaves on the linen. Back in the loft, he starts rummaging through the dresser that's backed against the chimney, facing the bed.

The clothes are well made and soft to the touch, even after the extended stay in drawers. Thankfully, they're also men's clothing. The fit is a little tight, but the white henley and dark grey sweatpants are the first truly clean clothes that he's worn in the last year. Derek is not going to complain.

He grabs another pair of sweatpants, black, out of the drawer, then heads back downstairs after snagging a couple of clean towels for Stiles. When he walks into the main room, he can tell that the angel has fallen into a deep sleep. His wings are limp, his back rising and falling in a slow, smooth rhythm. The light of the fire glances off of golden feathers, casting the room in a gentle glow. It hides the paleness of the angel's skin, making him look burnished. With the gentle curve of toned muscles and the golden glow, Stiles looks like a statue, cast in bronze, brought to life. Derek feels his breath stutter and catch.

He swallows, pushing the sudden attraction away, and sets the towels and clothes on the low coffee table separating the couch from the fireplace. Derek leaves the room, trying to convince himself that it's just to investigate the rest of the house and not a hastily beaten retreat.

The kitchen is as close to a gold mine as he's ever found. It's still filled with canned goods and dried food. There's a gas range, which lights when Derek turns to knob, and since water won't be a problem, he starts grabbing things to make dinner. There's pasta and cans of tomato paste and diced tomatoes and vegetables, and he moves about the kitchen, grabbing spices as he goes.

The rain is still coming down in sheets, so he leaves a pot outside to fill with water and goes back to start the sauce. He throws the tomatoes and tomato paste into a pot, adds oregano, garlic and onion powder, salt, pepper, and a bay leaf and leaves it all to simmer. After a few minutes, he brings in the pot, now filled to the brim. He sets it on the stove, ready to start boiling after the sauce has had time to cook.

After almost an hour, the house smells like Italian food, the fire has warmed the place enough that it's cozy, and Derek feels like it's a year ago and achingly normal. He piles pasta into two bowls, covers them both with sauce, and walks back into the main room. Stiles is still asleep, so Derek puts the steaming bowls on the table and carefully nudges the angel until he swipes at Derek, trying to push him away.

"G'way," Stiles mutters, face still pressed into the couch. "M'comfy."

"I've got food," is all Derek gets out, and then Stiles is looking at him, eyes wide and excited.

"Awesome." He lifts his wings gently, favoring the right one, and sits up. He grabs a bowl, then breathes in the steam. When Stiles moans, Derek has to look away and hope that the darkness of the room and the fire behind him will hide his sudden blush. He grabs his own bowl and settles on the floor.

Stiles digs in, shoveling the pasta into his mouth as fast as his fork can carry it. Derek, however, takes his time, savoring every bite. It's simple food, but it's the first time he's eaten a real meal in who-knows-how-long. They sit in surprisingly companionable silence, the crackling fire and the hissing rain the only sounds in the room.

Stiles finishes first, setting his bowl on the coffee table with a loud sigh. He lifts his wings gingerly until they’re arched over the back of the couch, then leans back, eyes closed and a small smile on his face.

“That was amazing,” he sighs again, resting his hand against his stomach. Derek does not notice the shadows the fire casts against the angel’s muscles, does not want the fingers resting there to be his own.

Derek grunts, then finishes eating. His fork clinks softly against the ceramic bowl. He stacks Stiles’ dishes with his, then pushes himself up, the habit of cleaning up after himself kicking in, even after all this time.

“I grabbed you some sweats from upstairs,” he says, gesturing towards the pile of linens. “And some towels so you can dry off.”

Stiles beams, then heaves himself off of the couch, his wings trailing behind him.

“Thanks. These pants do some amazing things for my ass, but they are not comfortable wet.” He quickly starts to untie the front of the pants and slides his thumbs under the waistband. Derek catches a flash of the pale skin over Stiles’ hipbone before forcing himself to turn away. Derek tightens his grip on the bowls, then heads towards the kitchen. He drops them into the sink, then places his hands against the cool marble and breathes. 

Derek hasn’t had any chance to enjoy the more physical aspects of life since everything went to shit last year. Sex hadn’t been high on his list of priorities _before_ everything started burning, just an occasional itch he scratched with nameless men and women. It never struck him out of nowhere, rising unbidden with a glance of amber eyes and pale skin, never hit him like a fist in the gut, a painful urge he can barely deny.

He feels lust curl in his stomach, warm tendrils that race down his spine and settle into a hot ball. He can feel his body shaking, can see goose bumps forming on his arms where the henley has ridden up. It’s all overwhelming, and he fights to breathe past it, to get his body back under his control.

He feels Stiles walk into the kitchen. There’s a weight between his shoulders, a heaviness that Derek realizes he feels whenever the angel is near. Still hunched over the sink, he takes a deep breath, fighting to get his heartbeat under control.

“Are you alright?” Stiles asks, taking quiet steps into the kitchen.

Derek sighs, then nods.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” He pushes away from the sink, his body finally under control. When he turns to face the angel, Derek hardly feels anything at all.

“There’s a bed upstairs. You should go get some rest. I’ll take first watch.”

Stiles nods, brow slightly furrowed, then heads towards the stairs leading to the loft.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” He asks, his foot on the first step, wings swept out of the way so he can watch Derek.

“Yeah. Go, sleep.” Derek turns back towards the sink, waits until he can hear Stiles’ light footsteps upstairs, until even those stop. When the house is silent except for the quiet rain, he leaves the kitchen to sit in front of the roaring fire. He takes the bowie knife from his pile of supplies, carefully cleans it, honing it to a razors edge. The fire light glances off the steel, blinding like golden wings.

Hours later, the flames have fallen to embers, and he settles onto the now-dry couch. There’s a chest behind it filled with blankets, and he pulls one tight around himself. He dozes in the red glow of the embers, until the rain stops, and he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, the response to this story is mind-boggling! Thank you ALL for reading and subscribing and just generally making my day, every day. <3 Again, this is unbeta'd, so if you find any problems, please let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long, O God, is the foe to scoff? Is the enemy to revile your name forever? Why do you hold back your hand, your right hand? Take it from the fold of your garment and destroy them!”
> 
> Psalm 74:10-11

When Derek wakes up, it is to muted light and a figure looming overhead. He scrambles back, the blanket tangling around his legs, as he reaches desperately for a weapon of any kind. It’s only after he’s fallen to the floor, pulse racing and limbs akimbo, that he recognizes the shape above him. He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes as he lets his body rest in a disorganized heap on the cool wood.

“Dammit, Stiles.” The light shifts, and Derek can hear the quiet susurration of wings against hard wood.

"I'm not the one who overslept, dude. This whole 'watch' thing means you're supposed to wake me up after six hours, not fall asleep. Now, c'mon. Get up." A hand closes around Derek's arm, pulling it from where it lays covering his eyes. Stiles looks down at him with a half-smile on his face, and Derek frowns.

"I'll make breakfast," the angel grins, then pulls Derek to his feet like he weighs nothing. Derek stumbles a bit as he gets his balance, and Stiles reaches out his other hand, settling it on Derek’s waist. He feels every fingertip burn through the henley, and Derek half wonders, if he were to pull the fabric of the shirt up, would there be small red marks, fingerprints seared into his skin.

He takes a step back.

“Breakfast sounds good.”

In truth, breakfast _sounds_ better than it turns out to be. While dinner had been easy enough to scrape together, there’s really nothing in the house that will work for breakfast food. Derek manages to find a dented can of peaches in the back of the pantry. The glee that steals over Stiles’ face when he sees the fruit makes Derek hesitate, then open the can and pass it to the beaming angel.

Stiles reaches into the open can, completely forgoing utensils. The fruit is slick with syrup, and Stiles’ fingers pinch into the sticky flesh as he carries the first half to his mouth. His teeth flash white as they bite into the fruit, lips glistening with syrup. It runs from the corners of his mouth, sliding down to dangle from his chin. Stiles moans around the first mouthful, swallowing carefully. His fingers dart to his chin, wiping the drop of clear syrup from his skin and into his mouth. Derek watches as Stiles’ finger disappears into the darkness of his mouth, lips wrapped tightly around the digit. Stiles digs back into the can, pulling out piece after piece of fruit. Syrup drips down the angel’s fingers and palm, settling in the hollow of his wrist. Derek finds himself staring, his heart pounding in his ears, while Stiles carefully follows the sticky trail with his tongue.

Derek settles for canned soup. All in all, it ends up being one of the most frustrating meals of his life.

After building up the fire until the house is warm again, they clean up. Derek carefully repacks his supplies, running through his mental list as he goes. He snags a pair of jeans from upstairs, as well as an extra shirt. He also grabs the matches he’d found the night before and pretty much everything he can fit into his pack from the pantry.

When he shrugs the pack on, the extra weight is noticeable, and he grins. It’s been awhile since he’s been properly provisioned, and he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Stiles has shrugged back into his leather pants, no worse the wear from the rain, and is waiting for Derek on the wrap-around porch.

“I think we got about a hundred miles before the storm hit last night. If you can hold it for a couple of hours, we should be able to get to Tupper Lake before the afternoon’s out.”

Stiles looks pretty pleased with himself, flashing a wide grin at Derek.

“Told you it’d be faster to fly,” Stiles chuckles. He walks down the steps, spreading his wings wide. He takes a quick hop, then glides down the path leading away from the house. He spins gracefully when he lands, wings flashing gold in the early morning light, and laughs back at Derek.

Derek fights back his answering grin, but he feels the corner of his mouth twitch up anyway.

When Stiles drops to his knee, gasping, Derek is puzzled. Standing behind the angel is a large black man, his hair cropped short, with a crossbow lowering to point at Stiles’ back. He’s flanked by a woman with blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a slim young man with curly hair. The blond is carrying a bow - Derek can see the heavy weight of a gun resting on her hip - and the young man is flinging a net over the wide spread of Stiles’ wings.

“This is just not my week,” Stiles mutters, lifting his wings under the weight of the net. It shifts slightly, but the angel is clearly pinned.

“Erica, get the tranq.” The black man nods towards Stiles, crossbow still pointed firmly at the angel. The blond, Erica, rushes forward, pulling the gun from her hip. She presses it against Stiles’ neck, and there’s a quiet hiss before Derek’s able to say or do anything. Stiles groans and falls limp to the ground.

“What the hell.” Derek rushes down the steps, hand going to the back of his pants where his Glock is waiting.

“Just saving your life, big boy.” Erica smirks at him, still kneeling down by Stiles’ limp body. “You can’t trust these things, even when they’re grounded.”

She stands up, kicking Stiles’ limp body, then walks towards Derek, her hips swaying with each step. She places a finger against the hard plane of his chest, then runs her nail down towards his waist.

“He can’t hurt you now,” she purrs, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Derek grabs her wrist tight, stopping the downward trail of her finger.

“Thanks,” he spits out, then pushes away from her. The black man frowns, then moves to stand behind Erica.

“Name’s Boyd. That’s Isaac.” He gestures towards the other man, who’s taken the net off of Stiles and is now tightening a zip tie around the angel’s wrists.

“Derek. What are you doing out here?”

Boyd gestures towards the house.

“We saw the smoke, figured someone must’ve settled in for the night. We’ve been gathering survivors over the past year.”

He turns and starts walking down the path. Derek follows him, keeping an eye on Stiles. Erica and Isaac have wrapped the angel’s wings in the netting, holding them close to his body. With a groan, Isaac grabs Stiles and lifts him into a fireman’s carry, and then starts following Boyd. Erica falls in behind, bow at the ready.

“I can’t imagine you’ve found many.” Derek says.

“Not at first, no. But people are starting to be more brave, now that so much time has passed. No one figures that they’d still be looking for us.” He gestures towards Stiles. “We’ve never taken one alive. Should be interesting.” The grin he flashes has a bit too much teeth to it, and Derek swallows against the trepidation that’s building in his throat.

They walk for about a half-hour, Stiles unconscious the entire time, as Boyd explains how his folks had lived in the Adirondacks his whole life, how he and his family had fled into the forests, how they’d set up a camp that slowly grew as stragglers from the area came stumbling in. Now, it’s a stable settlement, with hunters and soldiers for protection, and teachers for the youngsters that fill the camp. Boyd smiles when he tells Derek about the baby that was just born a few months ago, a healthy little boy. It’s the first child that’s been born there, and he’s given the whole group hope for a future.

Derek nods through it all and carefully notes where they’re walking. _Heading south-east_ , he thinks. _Wrong direction._

It has never occurred to him that _Stiles_ might be in danger out here. He's spent the last year in almost constant fear of discovery by the angels, spent so much time cataloging their rare weaknesses, that he had never thought that there might be people out there who are a danger to the angels, and not the other way around. He watches the slump of Stiles' back, the tightly wrapped wings, and starts thinking of a way to get both of them out safe.

When they get to the camp, Derek is both impressed and worried. There is a tall fence made out of young trees surrounding the camp. The lower ends have been stripped of their branches, but the tops still have thick canopies that offer protection from any winged visitors. There are also saplings that have been striped of their branches entirely and sharpened to points scattered about the area surrounding the camp. Judging by the distance between the stakes, it looks like they've been set up to leave no space large enough for an angel's wings. Derek winces when he imagines what the sharpened sticks would do to the delicate tracery of Stiles' wings. It also means that escaping directly from the camp will be easier than sneaking out, if he’s able to get Stiles airborne.

Derek can see sentries walking along the upper edge of the walls. Boyd calls out, and the gate into the compound is opened. When it shuts behind them with a definitive thud, Derek feels claustrophobic even in the wide open space within the walls.

The angel is tossed into a small cabin in the center of the camp, the net still tightly wrapped around his wings and the zip tie biting into his wrists. From the boneless slump of his body, Derek can tell that whatever Erica hit Stiles with is still working full-force. Erica and Isaac stand guard, while Boyd shows Derek to the barracks.

The long, narrow building is filled with bunk beds, stretching the entire length of the main room. There are a few windows spread throughout, letting in the early morning light. At the far end, he can see a door with a small window leading into another space. But the most astonishing thing, to Derek, is the sheer number of people filling the space.

It’s more humanity than Derek’s seen since before the angels had arrived. There are groups of adults milling around, talking quietly. In the far corner, there's a group of children playing. It's like finding water in a desert, but rather than comforting him, it throws Derek on edge. The conversations die down as they note the groups arrival, and Derek can suddenly feel the weight of nearly forty eyes on him.

"Boyd," an older man with a greying beard steps forward, "who's this?"

There's judgement in the question, distrust thick in the air. If Boyd notices, he doesn't show any signs of it.

"Found him at a lake house nearby, about to get attacked by an angel. We captured the flying rat and brought this guy, Derek, along with us."

"He'll have to meet with Gerard." The older man nods towards the door at the far end of the room. "He's in."

Boyd nods, then gestures towards the door and starts walking. Derek takes a hesitant step, then starts walking determinedly down the corridor formed between the bunks. He can feel the adults assessing him as he passes, eyeing his heavy pack and the empty quiver hanging from it.

He chooses to ignore them, focusing instead on Boyd’s back and this Gerard character. Whoever this guy is, he must be one of the leaders of the camp, and Derek knows he'll have to get a feel for him to figure out his next move.

Boyd knocks quietly, then lets himself in. When Derek tries to follow, Boyd simply shakes his head and closes the door. The door clicks shut, and it echoes through the barracks. Derek waits quietly by the door, and slowly, conversations start back up. The kids seem to have picked up on the anxiety in the room the most, though, and huddle around their parents, clinging to shirts and pants. Derek feels a pang of guilt at the wary fear he sees on their little faces.

Boyd leaves the office a few minutes later, though it feels like hours to Derek, and ushers him through the door. Derek shifts his pack, readying himself for a fight.

The room is a small office, with a large metal desk filling most of the space. There's an old man sitting in a chair behind it. He's balding, a white halo of hair wrapping around the lower half of his head. He's wearing a pair of thin silver glasses perched low on his nose, and he's looking through some paperwork.

"I apologize I don't have a chair for you," he says, not looking up from his papers. He makes a careful mark with a pencil, then turns to the next page. "There's not much room in here for unnecessary things."

When he looks up, Derek's gaze is met by a pair of light blue eyes and no compassion. There's an emptiness there that Gerard tries to hide behind a polite smile, but Derek can see that it doesn't quite reach the man's cold, calculating eyes.

"I'm Gerard." He says, standing and reaching across the desk to shake Derek's hand before sitting back down. Derek is surprised by the strength in the handshake, and he hopes that his palms aren't sweating.

"Derek." He presses his palm against his thigh and focuses on breathing through the mild panic rising in his chest.

“Derek.” Gerard says the name like it has a flavor, rolling it around on his tongue. “And you were about to be taken, I hear?”

Derek nods.

“Interesting.” Gerard looks back down to the papers, makes another notation, and looks back up. “Very interesting. Especially since Boyd noted that you had no weapon ready, though you’re clearly armed.”

The polite smile that Gerard has been wearing is gone.

“I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you were caught unawares. But just to be clear, the angel that was brought in with you will be questioned, then killed. I will pull every feather from his wings, break every bone in his body, _bleed him dry_ until he tells me what I want to know, and then I will put a bullet between his eyes. He will receive the exact same amount of mercy that his kind have shown us.”

He sets his pencil down, then stands up.

“And if I ask him about your role in this, and he gives me any answer but ‘nothing,’ I will do the same to you. Am I clear?”

Derek nods, stunned. His pulse is racing, palms sweating, and he’s doing everything he can to keep his expression neutral.

_What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now officially longer than my graduating thesis. I don't know how I feel about this...
> 
> Apologies for posting later than I usually do! The Super Bowl kind of threw a wrench in things. I will try to have the next chapter out by Sunday, so keep your eyes peeled.
> 
> I also want to say, like always, THANK YOU for all of your support! I cannot believe how many hits and kudos and SUBSCRIPTIONS (seriously, WHAT?!) that this story has garnered. So, to all of you lovely readers, thank you thank you thank you thank you.
> 
> If you'd like to see what else I get up to, feel free to follow me on tumblr (p1013.tumblr.com) or follow my Sterek blog (allthesterek.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The glory of his forest and of his fruitful land the LORD will destroy, both soul and body, and it will be as when a sick man wastes away.”
> 
> Isaiah 10:18

Gerard dismisses Derek with a wave of his hand. Still reeling from the older man’s announcement, Derek turns and opens the door to be met by Boyd standing guard. He nods, then falls into step beside Derek.

“You’re going to be bunking in here. C’mon.” Boyd walks to an empty bunk, then sits on the bottom bunk. “I’ve got top.”

Derek nods, then slings his pack down onto the foot locker at the end of the bed. Numbly, he sits down, letting his hands hang between his open thighs. Boyd awkwardly shifts next to him, then stands up, running a hand over his buzzed head.

“I should probably show you around, let you get your bearings. I don’t know how long Gerard is going to want you to stay here. He usually doesn’t let hunters or trackers leave unless there are extenuating circumstances, but you should know where the kitchen and the bathroom and shit is at least.”

Derek nods again, but doesn’t move. He’s trying to wrap his mind around the situation he’s in, trying to understand what’s happening in his fucked up headspace.

He has killed angels before, knows what it sounds like when their hollow bones break, knows the feel of warm blood on his hands. It’s never bothered him. He is doing a public service, removing the parasites that have infected his world one at a time. On dark nights, when he’s alone and waiting for sleep to take him, part of him is willing to admit that he takes some joy in the act.

He shouldn’t care about what Gerard is threatening. But there’s something about the thought of light leaving amber eyes, of golden wings broken and torn, that leaves him cold and shaking inside.

He realizes that he’s been sitting in silence for too long, Boyd shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stands next to the bunk.

“Sorry,” Derek mutters, pushing himself to his feet, “haven’t been around people that much.”

Boyd nods and the wariness in his eyes dims.

“S’okay, lots of people are like that when they first get here. C’mon.”

They leave the barracks, Boyd pointing out landmarks as they wander the camp, which takes up about six to ten acres by Derek’s estimate. There’s a school house, a kitchen with a small vegetable garden, a building that houses showers and men’s and women’s bathrooms, the hut where Stiles is being kept - still under guard, though Derek doesn’t recognize the two armed men standing by the door - an armory, and not much else. It’s all heavily guarded, with both men and women ranged along the wall.

Derek takes a quick headcount, figures that there are about fifty people living here in total, and starts planning on how he’s going to get Stiles out without hurting any of them.

Derek waits until it’s dark out, then slips from his bunk. Boyd rolls over onto his side and blinks blearily at Derek.

“Where you going?” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “Not supposed to let you off alone.”

Derek isn’t surprised but still has to bite back irritation.

“Just gotta take a piss, I’ll be right back.”

Boyd grunts, then stuffs his face back into his pillow. Derek thinks he can hear the other man snoring before he’s ten steps away from the bunk.

It’s pitch black and freezing when Derek steps outside. His breath hangs in a cloud before him, and he shivers. He can see dark shapes moving around the walls, just shadows against the night sky. There are a few torches scattered about the camp, marking the bathrooms and the kitchen. Otherwise, the camp is unlit. Derek breathes a small sigh of relief, then quickly steps into the shadows.

Years spent hunting and tracking have trained Derek to move quietly. His footsteps are muffled, and he moves quickly and silently towards the hut where they’re keeping Stiles. There’s a small window in the back and a man and a woman standing guard at the front, chatting quietly. Derek uses their voices to cover his own.

“Stiles,” he hisses, getting up on his toes to try to look through the window. There’s a quick glint of gold, and then Stiles is at the window, grinning.

“Hey, Derek. They’ve got me in the Presidential Suite. Constant service, luxurious single accommodations, plenty of time to sit and relax. Really, it’s the best place I’ve stayed in a long time.” He winks, then flaps his wings quietly.

Derek isn’t quite sure how to respond, and his calves are burning from the strain of keeping himself on his tiptoes. He drops down, then peeks around the corner of the building, making sure that no one’s heard the angel’s monologue.

“You need to watch your volume,” Derek whispers. “They’ve got guards out front. Armed guards. That want to _kill you_.”

Stiles shrugs, a delicate lift of shoulders and wings.

“Those two are having an affair and figuring out what they’re doing later. Considering some of the racy stuff they’ve been saying to each other, I don’t think they’re that focused on little ol’ me.”

“I don’t _care_. Whether it’s those two or any of the other people here, someone is going to kill you and soon. We need to figure out how we’re getting out of here.” Derek whispers, looking around a little frantically.

Stiles frowns slightly, looking over Derek’s shoulder towards the wall.

“I should be able to fly both of us out of here without a problem, but we’re going to have to do something about the guards. I’m pretty sure a few of them have guns. They were practicing out in the yard earlier with bows, and they’re all pretty good shots. If it were just me, one or two hits wouldn’t really slow me down, but with your added weight, I don’t know.” Stiles sighs.

“We’ll have to make a distraction.”

“I won’t hurt anyone,” Stiles say, suddenly serious. His eyes are starting to glow again, and Derek steps further in front of the window, trying to stop the light from seeping past him.

“Calm down, I wasn’t planning on hurting anyone.” He holds a hand up in front of Stiles’ eyes. “You need to turn off the spotlights, someone’s going to notice.”

Stiles immediately closes his eyes, which dims the light but doesn’t stop it entirely. Derek can see the delicate veins that trace across Stiles’ eyelids.

“They’ve got one of the guys who captured you keeping an eye on me, and I’m not sure how far he’ll let me go. If I can sneak into the kitchen, I might be able to start a fire. Throw a couple towels or something into an oven, get some serious smoke going. Considering the food stores are in there, I think that’d bring people running pretty quick.”

“I shouldn’t have any problem knocking the door down,” Stiles says, nodding. “I’ll wait until I see the guards leave, and then I’ll make a break for it. You’re going to have to be ready to go as soon as I get out, though. We’re not going to have much time.”

Derek grunts in agreement, then leans around the corner of the hut again, checking on the guards.

“I have to go. Boyd’s going to notice I’ve been gone too long. Tomorrow?”

Stiles nods, then steps back into the darkness of the hut, his eyes just barely glowing.

“Tomorrow.”

\--

Thankfully, Boyd is passed out when Derek gets back into the barracks. Surprisingly, Derek sleeps soundly, falling asleep almost immediately when he figured he’d be up for hours working on the escape plan.

Instead, he’s shaken awake by Boyd, light streaming in through the windows lining the barracks. Derek stumbles after Boyd, rushing through an ice cold shower and a breakfast of oatmeal and powdered eggs. As he slowly works his way through the fairly disgusting meal, he takes the time to observe the kitchen. There’s a separate room with all of the ovens and grills that he can see through a small window behind the buffet line. About six people are either cooking or manning the line. He can see telltale bulges at their hips that he thinks are knives and hopes aren’t guns.

All in all, the kitchen is well guarded and heavily attended. Derek is not feeling confident about their plan.

His confidence only wanes as the day continues. Boyd is stuck to him like glue, keeping an extremely obvious eye on all of Derek’s activities during the day, even his bathroom breaks. Eventually, he manages to sneak away while Gerard calls Boyd into his office. Derek walks out of the barracks and towards the kitchen as quickly as he can without garnering any attention. A few eyes follow his path, but he nods brusquely and seems to avoid any serious interest.

Thankfully, the kitchen is basically empty. He can hear someone bumbling about in the storage room, but otherwise, he’s alone. There’s a dirty dish rag next to the stovetop, and he grabs it, throws it into an oven, cranks it as high as the knob goes, and flees.

He’s walking back into the barracks as Boyd leaves Gerard’s office, and Derek does his best to not look guilty. Boyd’s furrowed brow seems to say he’s not doing that effective of a job. Derek’s never regretted his antisocial lifestyle, but right now, he wishes he were better at handling people and pretending nothing is wrong.

“Gerard wants to talk to you.” Boyd shouts, his arms crossed.

Derek doesn’t have time for this, but he nods, grabbing his pack as he passes his bunk.

“I just want out of here.” He mutters when he gets next to Boyd. “I don’t do _people_.”

There’s a flash of compassion on Boyd’s face for just a second, but it’s quickly masked by indifference and distrust.

“Maybe he’ll let you leave. You gotta talk to him about it.”

Derek chooses to open the office door rather than answer.

Gerard is sitting behind his desk, and Derek wonders if the old man even left last night, or if he just lives there, sleeping on the floor under the desk.

“Derek, I have some troubling news to share with you.” He raises an eyebrow, then presses his palms into his desk, leaning forward. “According to some of our guards, you were out wandering around last night. And hanging around a certain holding cell.”

Derek knows he’s in trouble. He knows there’s nothing he can do to quell Gerard’s suspicion, and as he likes his skin right where it is, Derek reacts rather than thinking.

It’s probably one of the worst decisions he’s ever made.

Gerard is unarmed, but Derek isn’t. He quickly reaches forward, grabs the man by the short hairs circling the back of his head, and slams his head into Derek’s own. Gerard yelps as his nose slams into the hard surface, and then there’s blood everywhere, spraying onto Derek’s hand and face.

He hadn’t meant to break Gerard’s nose, but Derek doesn’t feel particularly bad about it.

Gerard is dazed, and Derek quickly wraps his hands around the old man’s neck, fingers pressing into his throat and blocking his air. The old man pries at Derek’s hands while trying to move back, trying to use the desk to force them apart. Derek’s hands are strong from years of hard work, and Gerard’s are weak from age, and soon the old man’s eyes shutter, and he falls limp in Derek’s hands.

He lets Gerard’s body slump back into his chair. There’s blood everywhere, and it’s still trickling down Gerard’s face. There’s no way Derek is going to get out of here without a fight, not looking the way he does. He quickly wipes the blood from his hands, then takes his Bowie knife out of his pack, checks that the edge is sharp, takes a deep breath. He gets his back settled on his back, tightens the straps, and then opens the door.

At first, no one reacts. Derek can see Boyd’s brain catch up with what it’s seeing, can see the man’s eyes widen and his arms reach out towards Derek. He spins, knife flashing, and Boyd stumbles back, a deep gash opening on his arm. Derek uses his momentum to rush the door, and people stumble out of his way.

He gets outside, still running, and heads towards the hut where Stiles is being held. He can see smoke curling up from the kitchen, but there are people shouting from behind him, and the guards spread throughout the camp start to converge. Derek makes a break for it, legs pounding against the hard ground. He hears a whistle go past his shoulder and watches the crossbow bolt thunk deep into the ground in front of him. He doesn’t know if it’s a warning shot or not. He keeps running towards Stiles.

“Get the fuck out of there!” He screams, weaving through the open area of the camp to avoid the crossbow bolts that are whizzing through the air towards him. He feels one cut into his arm, a sudden burn against his tricep, but he ignores the pain.

The door on the hut bursts open, and Stiles walks out like this is not going absolutely to hell. He looks at Derek like he’s sprouted a second head, then whirls as Isaac and Erica, the guards posted at his door, recover and start attacking.

The angel is moving with a fluid grace that defies description. Rather than hindering him, his wings are flowing through the air like silk, helping him to balance as he dances around Erica and Isaac’s knives. He doesn’t touch them, just carefully dodges their blows and knocks them off balance. His wings and limbs never get close enough to touch, skimming past the lunging humans in quick rushes of wind. He does nothing to harm them, instead staying just out of reach and slowly but surely moving towards Derek.

He sees a flash of white, and he realizes that Stiles is _laughing_. Derek feels an answering grin rise on his face, the places where Gerard's blood has dried pulling painfully tight. He knows he must look like a madman, skin coated in blood, mouth split open into a feral smile.

He really can't make himself care.

Instead, he rushes into the fray, his knife, bent back over his forearm, catching against Isaac's blade when the man makes a lunge towards Stiles' unprotected back.

"We're not here to hurt you," Derek grunts, feeling Isaac's blow ricochet up his arm and into his shoulder. It makes the wound where the crossbow bolt cut into his arm burn. The pain shoots up his spine and makes his vision spotty. He fights through it, focusing on keeping Isaac's knife away from his face.

The younger man bares his teeth, straining against Derek.

"Could've fooled me," he grits out, then pushes back, knocking Derek off balance and freeing his weapon.

“We just want to leave.” He shouts as Isaac lunges towards him again, their blades clashing. The younger man is good with a knife, and Derek is forced to focus entirely on keeping his skin intact. He can hear Stiles laughing and occasionally grunting as he dances around Erica, but it becomes background noise to Derek’s heartbeat in his ears and the clash of steel on steel.

Isaac manages to duck under his guard, knife flashing, and cuts into his chest. It’s deep, and Derek can feel his blood soaking his shirt.

“Stiles, we’ve gotta go!” He yells, swooping in close while Isaac recovers his balance and shoving his shoulder into the younger man. Isaac falls, and Derek rushes towards Stiles, who’s turning to him, wings flashing. He flares them, then whips them back, creating a rush of air that catches Erica and knocks her down.

“Well, c’mon then! I was waiting on you.” He offers his arm.

Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’ forearm, and then they start running together, Stiles’ wings flapping and catching the wind. Stiles’ other arm wraps around Derek’s waist, and then they’re airborne. Bolts zip by, some brushing close enough to Stiles’ wings that Derek can see the feathers ruffle in the breeze they create.

Derek looks back and sees flames licking at the windows of the kitchen. Guilt rushes in, choking him. He may not have wanted to stay there, and he may not have liked Gerard at _all_ , but he didn’t want to destroy the careful peace that had been built. He hopes that the camp can recover, that they’ll be able to put the fire out, and his eyes watch the rising smoke as they fly further and further away.

Derek leans back into Stiles’ arms, relief flooding him in a huge rush. He starts to chuckle, and then he’s laughing harder than he has in years. There are tears streaming down his face, and the cut on his chest hurts with each gasping breath, but, somehow, that’s funny, too.

Stiles looks at Derek like he’s crazy, and then Stiles is smiling and laughing, too. They fly for a few minutes like that, the laughter slowing to giggles. Derek hiccups, which starts Stiles laughing again, and the angel looks down at Derek with something like fondness and possibilities.

It’s like a sudden brush with ice water, and Derek takes a deep breath, the laughter dying on his tongue. Stiles is still looking at him, and then he’s bending his head to Derek’s, and there’s a pair of soft, supple lips brushing against his.

Instinct and repressed lust take over. Derek surges up, opening his mouth beneath Stiles’. There’s a sudden rush of warmth that starts at the top of his head and washes through the rest of his body, settling deep in his stomach. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in Stiles’ hair, pulling the angel deeper into the kiss. It’s all heat and friction, and Derek’s world coalesces into the points where Stiles’ and his lips meet.

Stiles groans into his mouth, then slides his tongue to meet Derek’s. It traces over his teeth, and Derek opens wider, trying to pull the angel closer, trying to breathe him in with every gasp and moan.

There’s a sudden drop, and Stiles pulls away, his pupils blown wide and dark, and steadies himself.

Once Stiles’ lips are off of his, Derek doesn’t know what to do. His heart is racing, and his brain is finally catching up with his body and broadcasting that this is a terrible, _terrible_ idea. His chest and arm burn, his face is flushed, and his pants are too tight.

“Land,” he says, his voice rough and deep with desire. Stiles grins back at him, then angles towards the forest below.

When they land, Stiles ducks back in, eyes closing as he leans in to kiss Derek. Derek ducks his head, feels Stiles’ lips brush over his hair, and slips out of his arms.

“I can’t do this.” He says, then turns and flees into the tree line.

If Stiles responds, Derek doesn’t hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for this taking so long to get posted, but enjoy the extra long chapter! I have a fair bit written for the rest of the story, so the last few chapters shouldn't take as long. But my daughter, who's four months old, has just figured out how to roll onto her belly, and that's been keeping me busy.
> 
> I also want to say THANK YOU again and always to everyone reading and following this story. I appreciate it more than I can adequately express. I LOVE YOU ALL LIKE I LOVE CHOCOLATE AND ICE CREAM AND PUPPIES.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But I say to you, Love your enemies.”
> 
> Matthew 5:44

Derek walks in a haze. The woods are dark, even though the sun is still peeking through the trees. The undergrowth is thick and tangles around his ankles. He ducks between trees, stepping over roots and rocks, letting his feet carry him further and further away from Stiles.

Eventually, he trips, the wound in his chest pulls, and he’s gasping, bent over against the pain. He stays like that, his hands digging into his knees, and shuts his eyes. He knows, logically, that he needs to stop, needs to clean his wounds and turn around and find Stiles, continue moving towards Tupper Lake and Laura.

Emotionally, he just wants to say _fuck it_ , curl up into a ball, and not move until everything is resolved. Or at least back to the tenuous normal that Stiles and he had established between themselves.

Instead, he sits down on a half-rotted log and swings his pack from his back to the ground in front of him. He pulls his ruined shirt off, tossing it into the woods in a fit of pique. It disappears into the dense brush, and he feels a completely illogical sense of satisfaction.

There’s dried blood smeared and flaking across his chest. The cut is deep, and Derek can see where the muscle is pulled back from itself. It’s started bleeding again from the places where his shirt had stuck to the wound. Blood seeps out, leaving new trails of deep red on his skin.

He reaches into his bag, digging through it until he finds an old shirt. It’s clean but worn thin and soft. He fingers the hem, tracing over the stitching where it’s weak, then pulls. The fabric gives easily in his hands, and he quickly tears it into strips. He lays them out on his thigh, then reaches back into his pack for his water.

It stings when he pours it over the wound. Pink rivulets drip onto the ground, and Derek blots at the cut. His breath hisses in with each touch, but he fights through the burn as he carefully wraps his chest. He wishes he had super glue to close the wound, but the improvised bandages will have to do. It takes him a few tries to get them tight enough to not shift when he lifts his arms. The wraps cut into his skin just a little, the fabric taut and translucent where there’s only one or two layers. It stings, but the pain eases as he breathes through it.

When he’s finished, it’s dark, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s kept track of the direction he came from, knows he can find his way back to whatever is waiting for him in the clearing. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a little smirk, self-deprecating and regretful.

He groans and cradles his head in his hands. Somehow, in a world that’s already a giant mess, he’s managed to make it worse. Derek doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to handle all of this. When it was just a matter of denying himself, suppressing the attraction that kept fighting its way to the surface, he could cope. But now, he knows how Stiles’ lips feel against his own. Knows the taste of the angel’s breath. The feel of warm skin and racing blood.

He presses his thumbs into his eyes until he sees white spots, then stands in a huge rush. He grabs his pack, then starts marching back towards where Stiles may or may not be waiting.

Derek is an adult, he’s spent the last year crossing the nation, has killed, has survived. He can fucking figure out how to tell a guy that he made a mistake, that the rush of heat and want that swept over him was an accident. That it can’t, _won’t_ , happen again.

Probably.

The walk back seems shorter than Derek remembers. The undergrowth seems to part around his legs, and, even though it’s dark, he finds his way easily. He breaks through the tree line and walks into the clearing Stiles and he had landed in earlier.

Stiles is sitting in front of a small fire when Derek finds him. The angel’s wings are spread out over his shoulders, angled towards the fire. His fingers glide over each pinion, sifting through carefully. Derek can see a small pile of bent feathers, tiny slivers of gold that glint in the firelight, sitting next to Stiles. As Derek watches, he sees Stiles wince. Another golden feather joins the pile.

Derek coughs quietly, and Stiles looks up. Derek can’t see Stiles’ eyes, but there’s a twist to his mouth that wasn’t there before, a certain stiffness in his shoulders and posture that makes Derek tense and unsettled.

“We need to talk,” he mutters, walking to the other side of the fire to sit down. He shifts his pack from his back, then leans his arms on his bent legs, eyes dropping from Stiles to the fire. Derek feels his eyes water, then blinks past it.

 _It’s just the smoke,_ he thinks. _It’ll pass._

The silence stretches out between them, tense and heavy. Derek feels it pressing into his skin like the bandages around his chest, and he winces, his wound pulling tight. Stiles keeps preening, pulling broken feather after broken feather from his wings.

The small pile continues to grow.

“You wanted to talk, so talk.” Stiles finally says, pausing to toss a feather into the fire. It flares up in a burst of sparks, and Derek has to lean back from the burn.

“About earlier...” Derek trails off, runs a hand through his hair.

“You mean when you shoved your tongue in my mouth? And then ran away?” Stiles raises an eyebrow, then pulls another feather from his wing. He plays with it, running it through his fingers.

Derek nods, then weaves his fingers together, clenching his hands into fists.

“It won’t happen again.”

Stiles raises his eyebrow.

“You sure about that? Because it seemed like you were pretty insistent about it happening that time, and while I don’t have a whole lot of practical experience, that kind of passion is hard to deny.”

Derek is silent, staring at the fire and refusing to raise his eyes.

“Look, I don’t care what’s going on in that head of yours.I know it’s a lot, and I don’t blame you for that, not at all. It’s hard enough being attracted to someone you’ve just met. I can’t imagine what it’s like being attracted to someone you should hate.” He runs the feather over his lips, then sighs.

“I don’t hate you. Hell, I might even _like_ you, even though I’m convinced you’re a giant ass most of the time. You’re closed off. You don’t like people. You don’t like me. But you’re persistent and dedicated. You don’t give up easily. You fight for others, whether they deserve it or not.” Stiles’ mouth curves into a small smile, and some of the tension eases out of Derek like pus from a wound.

“I don’t hate you, even if I wanted to. But I... I just need to be clear about one thing.” Stiles throws the feather down onto the pile next to him, then stands.

“Don’t drag me into that,” he gestures vaguely at Derek, “until you figure out what you want. Don’t you act on what you’re feeling and then change your mind three seconds later. You can have me or you can’t. You don’t get both.”

Stiles opens his wings, and the light flashes from his gleaming feathers and his blazing eyes, and Derek feels the breath stutter and freeze in his lungs. There’s a weight pressing against his chest, against his _heart_ , and he can’t breathe around it, he can’t think past it, it’s suffocating him and all he sees is gleaming gold and amber.

“I’ll take first watch. You... do whatever.” Stiles raises his wings and, with a single powerful thrust, lifts up and away. Discarded feathers fly up into the air and settle around Derek. Stiles disappears into the night sky, a silhouette barely visible against the stars.

A feather lands on Derek’s pack, and he picks it up, running the soft quill slowly through his fingers. He feels a wetness on its tip. His holds it up, lets the light catch and ripple across the surface. The end of the feather is darker than the rest, damp and dull. Hesitantly, he brings it to his mouth and runs it over his lips. It’s soft and smooth, and there’s just a hint of Stiles against his tongue. The feather dances away as he exhales, his breath choppy and rushed.

If he sits, running the feather through the spaces between his fingers, if he tucks it into his pack before lying down to sleep, there’s no one there to see.

And if he dreams of flashing eyes and warm lips, there’s no one to judge except himself.

\---

Stiles shakes Derek awake for his watch after what feels like a few minutes of sleep. Judging by the tired lift of Stiles’ wings and the bags under his eyes, it’s been longer. Derek patrols the area around their small camp as Stiles settles down to sleep. They don’t talk, just move around each other in careful silence. It prickles on Derek’s neck, making him antsy and a little hesitant.

The hours until dawn stretch out before him, and Derek putters about, trying to find something to keep himself busy. He disassembles the Glock, checking it for any dust or dirt. He hasn’t had a chance to clean it since he shot Stiles, and the smell of gunpowder is sharp and strong. He takes out his kit, runs clean cloths and brushes and oils over the metal until it’s gleaming in the dim light. He assembles the gun without thought, hands flying through the motions he’s long since memorized. It flows together, the slide clicking into place. The trigger pulls smooth and silent, and he hears the quiet snick of the firing pin snapping forward. He loads the magazine, then pulls back on the slide to chamber a round. He flicks the safety on, then tucks the gun into his pack.

It’s still a long time before the sun starts to peek through the trees. Derek watches the sunrise paint the forest. The trees glow crimson, their canopies filled with brightness and warmth, like flames licking at the sky. The light spills over Stiles where he’s lying on the ground, his wings awash in red and gold, his skin pale in comparison. Derek walks over to the angel’s sleeping form and lays a hand on the wing that’s blanketing him. It’s soft and warm.

Stiles stirs underneath Derek’s hand, and he’s pulling away as Stiles opens his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, not sure what he’s apologizing for. Stiles only nods, then stands and stretches.

“C’mon. We’ve got a long flight ahead of us.”

They quickly clean up the camp. Derek slings his pack onto his back, then steps into the circle of Stiles’ arms. His heart races, equal parts confusion and anticipation and uncertainty. His stomach drops when they lift into the air, and it stays somewhere near the bottom of his shoes for the first achingly silent fifteen minutes of flight.

Stiles is the first to break the silence, asking Derek to point out landmarks to navigate by. He points to the blank stretch of Interstate 87, a thin line that breaks through the forests of New York. He points to lakes and forests, to the mountains stretching out beneath them.

For the next three hours, Stiles asks Derek questions, and Derek answers. Questions about his childhood, about his family, about Laura. Questions about Wyoming and life in the wilderness. The answers flow from Derek, conversation coming easy when it never has before. He feels a burden lessening, a weight he didn’t know he was carrying suddenly feather-light.

It all comes crashing back, though, when he sees the familiar outline of Tupper Lake breaking through the trees. He tenses, feels Stiles’ arms tighten around him in response, and he swallows, throat tight and dry, choking.

“We’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, apologies for this taking SO LONG to get out. Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth. Thankfully, I already have parts of chapters 8, 9, and 10 written, so the rest of this should go pretty quickly. It's also going to get REALLY GOOD, REALLY SOON. I promise. :)
> 
> Again, thanks to all of you who take the time to kudos, comment, bookmark, and subscribe. I cannot believe the response that this story has garnered.
> 
> ALSO, HUGE THANKS to [virtualdon](http://virtualdon.tumblr.com) who made [this](http://virtualdon.tumblr.com/post/43248252753/teen-wolf-au-the-full-moon-like-blood-by-p1013) amazing graphic. Every time I look at it, I flail about with overflowing joy. You should all check her out, she's amazing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8
> 
> “And the effect of righteousness will be peace, and the result of righteousness, quietness…”
> 
> Isaiah 32:17

Their summer cabin is just as Derek remembers it, though a little worse for wear. Weeds are growing up through the spaces in the porch, the roof needs to be replaced, and the tree that overhangs the walkway leading up to the cabin has broken branches that look close to falling. The feeling is the same, though. The quietness of the deep woods, the calm that seems to steal over him as he walks up the shaded path, it all brings his childhood flooding back to him in a rush that leaves him rattled. Near the open door, he can see a pack leaning limply against the wood siding. Stenciled in red on the front is a triskele, a pattern echoed in the tattoo on his back.

He can hear Stiles walking behind him, his wings rustling against the ground, but it’s muted. Derek’s ears feel stuffed. His head feels too heavy for his neck, and if he weren’t standing, weren’t moving forward, he’d be convinced he were trapped in some sort of dream. He slides his pack from his shoulders, leaves it forgotten on the path to the cabin.

His foot goes through the first step leading up to the porch. He stumbles, his hands hitting the porch, and splinters dig into the skin above his boot cuff. Stiles’ hands are warm and sudden on his shoulders, but Derek shrugs them off, pushes himself up, and angrily pulls his foot loose.

“I’m fine,” he says, almost shouts, shoving the angel away. “I don’t want you here, not right now.”

Stiles falls back and catches himself. His face is pale and his eyes uncertain and searching, Derek’s not sure what for. But Stiles nods, then turns and walks in the direction of the lake at the bottom of the hill where the cabin sits.

Derek starts up the steps again, carefully avoiding the obviously rotten pieces of wood. There’s leaves scattered about the porch and, now that he’s closer, Derek can tell that no one’s been here in a while. There’s dust so thick on the windows that he can’t see through. The only sign of habitation is the pack, forlorn and forgotten on the porch.

He opens it carefully. There’s moss growing on the zippered opening, thick and clinging to the metal. The moss crumbles and falls to pieces underneath his fingers, spilling to the porch and over his jeans where he kneels next to the pack. It’s smells musty and dank, and he sneezes, turning his head to the side.

In the pack, there’s a case of ammo, some of the power bars that Laura likes but Derek can’t stand, and a change of clothing that is in surprisingly good shape. Other than that, though, there’s not much of use inside. Derek feels a quick pulse of hope in his chest.

 _Maybe she took what she needed._ He thinks. _Maybe she’s just being lazy. She’s never been organized._

He stands, leaving Laura’ pack on the porch. The door sticks, and he has to put his shoulder into it a few times before it shifts and opens. Inside the cabin, it’s dusty and dark. There’s a thick coat of grime on almost every surface, and there’s a stale smell to the air that reminds Derek of earth and asphalt and rot.

He tries to not think about it. He tries to stay hopeful, to keep thinking that she’ll just walk out from a room, laughing, or that there will be another note to guide him further down this path he’s walked for over a year.

He goes from room to room, seeing long forgotten signs of life. Dirty dishes on the table. Books with pages turned at the corner sitting on the coffee table or the couch or the floor. A half-finished pack of cigarettes, the white paper yellowed by age and tobacco.

He finds her in the bedroom. As far as he can tell, she didn’t die violently. It’s hard to be sure, though, since she’s just a bundle of bones tucked underneath the covers. Her hair, dark and dull with dust, is spread over the pillow, her hands curled near her face. What’s left of her skin is thin and dry, like the mummies at the museums they’d visit as kids, like paper forgotten on a kitchen counter, like cigarettes left in the sun.

He sinks down onto the dusty comforter, nestling his hip into the space where she's curled up. He raises a hand to brush a lone hair from her forehead. He sits quietly for a long moment, his hand resting on the bed next to hers. The sun dips, shadows sliding across the dirty floor. It's a long time before Derek is able to move, to stand from the bed.

Derek feels like he's decades older than when he first walked up to the cabin. He's unsteady on his feet when he turns towards his sister, to Laura.

He gently, carefully, pulls the comforter over her hands and face and hair.

He finds a shovel in the small tool shed behind the cabin. He starts digging.

The handle is old and splintered. He feels the sting of wood digging into his palms. He can’t find the energy to care. The hole he digs isn’t wide, but it’s deep.

He’s sweating by the time he’s finished.

He goes back into the cabin and carefully pulls the fitted sheet from around the mattress. He wraps her paper-and-matchstick body carefully, lifts the bundle gently from the bed, and walks to the grave.

She settles gently in the bottom of the hole, bundled form curled around itself from how she had slept. The dirt lands with a vulgar thump on her body, and he fights against grief as he slowly buries Laura in the dark woods of the Adirondacks, behind the cabin where they spent summers laughing and full of life.

Stiles finds him sitting on the front porch, carefully smoking his way through the remains of the pack Laura had left. Derek smokes each one down to the filter, then lights the next off the still-burning cherry, tossing the leftovers into the hole in the front step. Each breath burns in his lungs, the tobacco stale and tasteless, but he keeps dragging on the cigarettes, keeps drawing the smoke deeper into his lungs.

"Hey," Stiles says, sitting down carefully next to Derek. Stiles goes to grab the pack, but Derek snatches it up before Stiles can. Derek cradles it in his hand, then slides it into his pocket.

"I don't want to talk right now."

Stiles nods, then leans forward onto his knees. They sit quietly for a few minutes, Derek sucking on the cigarette until the camel's screaming. He can feel Stiles shifting next to him, body radiating with the need to talk.

"You know those things will kill you," Stiles says.

"You can kindly fuck off." Derek exhales, the smoke curling in the air between them.

"Well then." Stiles stands. "I can take a hint."

"Can you?" Derek stubs out the cigarette against the porch, pushing against the filter so hard it splits apart at the bottom, white fibers stained brown with tar and dirt.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles asks, turning slowly to face Derek.

"You know damn well what it means." Derek rushes to his feet, all anger and energy. "You can get the fuck out of here, no more pity for the lonely bastard wandering through New York. We're done."

He jumps off the porch, skipping over the broken step, and grabs his pack from where it's lying on the path. He swings it up, and it bangs painfully against his back. He hears Stiles stumble after him, and then he's spinning around, the angel's fingers pressing hard into his shoulder.

"What happened in there?" Stiles asks. Derek tries to tell himself that it's just pity creasing the angel's face, nothing else, and anger rushes over him, washes away any sense he had left, until he's overflowing with helpless rage.

"What the fuck do you think happened in there?" He shouts, shrugging off Stiles' hand from where it rests against his shoulder. "She was dead, you son of a bitch. Dead, just like everyone else. I buried her, and now? Now, we're fucking _done_."

He turns again, is walking down the path without seeing where he's going.

"You stop right there," Stiles shouts. He grabs Derek’s shoulder again, pulling him to a stop and spinning him around once more. Derek doesn’t realize he’s punching Stiles, hard and in the face, until his fist is connecting with the angel’s high cheekbone.

Stiles is shocked for a second, and then his eyes burst into light, and he’s on Derek like lightning. They grapple, Derek grabbing for Stiles’ delicate wings, Stiles wrapping his arms around Derek and throwing him to the ground. Stiles dives after him, sitting hard on Derek’s legs, pinning Derek’s arms with his knees. Derek struggles, cursing and writhing on the ground, while Stiles sits above him, face blank and bruising and eyes filled with white fire.

“She’s dead!” Derek screams into Stiles’ expressionless face. “She’s fucking _dead_ , and there’s nothing I could do! I couldn’t save her,” and now he’s sobbing, and his body is shaking with grief. The light dims in Stiles’ eyes, or it just blurs through his tears, but Derek doesn’t care.

There’s a wrenching pain that is filling his chest and head. It’s an ache that’s deeper than bone. The sobs that wrack his body sink into the earth until he’s convinced the whole world is shaking with him. He rests his head on the dirty ground, just lets the grief and the rage and the helplessness wash over him until it’s all he can do to just _breathe_.

Stiles sits with him through it all, sliding off to the side after the first desperate seconds. Derek curls into the angel’s body, face pressed into the dirt. Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair, shushing him and whispering quiet platitudes. It’s soothing, if meaningless, and as the sobs slow and Derek starts to feel like he can think past the ball of despair that curls in his gut, he finds himself leaning into Stiles’ touch.

He finally gets the strength to sit up, and Stiles reaches out, cradles Derek’s elbow in his hand.

“You okay?” He asks, raising a hand to brush dirt from where it’s turned to mud on Derek’s cheek.

“No,” Derek says, taking a shaky breath. “No, I’m not okay.”

Stiles frowns, and the hand resting on Derek cheek cradles, pulls him forward until Derek is enveloped in warm arms and gentle wings.

Derek’s face is resting in the space between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. His skin is warm and smells like the woods and wind. Derek closes his eyes, leans further into Stiles’ arms. The angel slides Derek’s pack from his shoulders, lets it fall to the ground, and pulls Derek in closer. He’s basically sitting in Stiles’ lap, body wrapped tightly around the angel. It’s calming. It’s an affection that Derek hasn’t realized he’s needed, a physical connection to someone else that’s been lacking since he left Wyoming. It soothes the ragged edges, settles the turmoil that is still roiling within.

The first kiss that Derek places into the hollow of Stiles’ throat is meant as a thank you. He feels the angel’s pulse jump beneath his lips, and then Derek is letting his tongue dart out to taste the dip at the center of his collar bone. Stiles gasps, and Derek feels the breath rush by underneath his mouth.

“Stop,” Stiles whispers, his hand stilling from where it’s been rubbing gentle circles on Derek’s back.

“What if I don’t want to?” The words are murmured into Stiles’ skin, vibrating against his pulse. Stiles groans. His arms tighten around Derek. The shelter of his wings pull back, his arms are sliding away, and Derek is forced to pull his face from the safety of Stiles’ skin.

Stiles looks stricken, looks more shaken than when Derek punched him just moments ago. His pupils are blown wide, his chest flushed and panting. His wings are throw behind him, held carefully away. Light cascades through the feathers, bathing them both in a soft golden glow.

Stiles is beautiful.

Derek reaches for him, cradles Stiles’ face in his hands, and then they’re kissing. Derek presses in too fast, too hard, and their teeth clack together. It stings against Derek’s lips, but he doesn’t care, just presses in deeper. It’s rough and wet and perfect. Stiles gasps, and Derek slides his tongue into the warmth of Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles starts kissing him back, his hands digging into Derek’s hair. Stiles pulls until it stings, and now it’s Derek who’s gasping, mouth tilting open as his head dips back. Stiles surges up, presses closers, and they’re sharing one breath between the two of them, passing it back and forth on groans and muffled curses.

Derek fumbles at the crease of Stiles’ hips, his fingers slipping into the dip between Stiles’ pants and his pelvis. Derek slides a finger under the waistband, and Stiles moans into his mouth, fingers clenching tighter in Derek’s hair.

Derek’s fingers can’t find any purchase on the ties of Stiles’ pants, so he presses the palm of his hand against them, feeling the heavy hardness of Stiles’ cock through the leather. Stiles grunts and thrusts against him, and Derek tightens his hand, feeling with breadth and width of Stiles beneath his hand.

“Derek, fuck...” Stiles pants, pulling Derek’s head back by his hair. Stiles mouths at Derek’s throat, his teeth scraping over Derek’s Adam’s apple. Derek groans, tips his head further back, presses up against the angel.

Stiles reaches for the hem of Derek’s shirt, pulling it over his head. It tangles around Derek’s arms, and he’s blind and laughing for a second before Stiles’ tongue is tracing over his nipple. It tightens to a peak, and Derek moans, finally getting his shirt off. He throws it to the side, uncaring, as he watches Stiles mouth at his chest. Stiles pushes Derek back until he’s leaning on his forearms, chest bared to the sky and Stiles’ tongue. He traces every dip of muscle, licking wide swaths across Derek’s skin. Stiles looks up at Derek, his eyes heavy-lidded and bright, and grins.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he says.

Derek reaches down, pulls Stiles up his body until they're breathing the same air.

"Me either," he murmurs against Stiles' lips, and they're kissing again.

It's slow and languid, unhurried. All lips and tongues and gentle caresses. Derek feels his heart race, completely at odds with the rhythm building between them. He's so hard, it hurts, his zipper biting painfully into his erection. Derek doesn't care. He's too wrapped up in Stiles, in the feel of their lips sliding against each other, in the careful push and pull of skin against skin.

Stiles wings are spread around them. He grinds up against Derek, their cocks lining up for a second of bliss. Derek rests his hands against Stiles' hips, coaxing him into a rhythm. They're moving against each other, friction building to a white hot ache that has Derek panting and cursing. Stiles is grinning against his mouth, whispering encouragement. His wings are wrapped around them. Derek runs his hand over the golden feathers, and suddenly, Stiles is coming, crying into Derek’s mouth, hips stuttering against Derek's in helpless pleasure.

Stiles rests his head on Derek's shoulder, breathing hard. He fumbles at Derek's waist, gets the button of Derek's jeans open, and then his hand is wrapping around Derek's cock. It only takes a few strokes, and Derek is seeing white and gold dance behind his eyes.

They sit for a while, just breathing, Derek still crouched in Stiles’ lap, his hand sticky between them. Derek presses a gentle kiss to Stiles' temple, his chest filled with something more than simple affection, something he can't come to terms with right now. He closes his eyes and breathes, leaning into Stiles.

"What's next?" Stiles asks, the words almost lost in the crook of Derek's neck.

Derek doesn't know how to answer. Next isn't something he's thought of much in the past few months. Next has always been something to think of after he and Laura were together again, and even then, it was an intangible thing. Next stretches before him, unknowable and foreboding.

"Next is a shower," he says, breathing in woods and wind and Stiles.

Right now, next can wait.

\---

_Stiles lands next to Lochemel who is watching as a group of angels sweeps through the streets below them. The group stops their flight every couple of minutes, landing to search through doorways and alleys. Whenever they find someone, there’s a loud shout or crying, then silence, and one of the angels leaves, carrying a limp form that Stiles can’t allow himself to focus on._

_Especially when the bundle barely fills the angel’s arms._

_“How can you stand this?” He asks, fighting against the rising nausea and guilt in his chest. “This just doesn’t seem right to me.” Stiles shifts his wings, a nervous habit he’s had since he was a child. It does something to help release the tense energy he always has humming beneath his skin, and it gives him something better to do than stand still._

_“What do you mean?” Lochemel turns, his brown eyes confused._

_“_ This _.” Stiles gestures towards the street, towards the group of angels. “We’ve been hunting these people down for months now, and it never seems to end, and the Big Guy hasn’t said a word about when - or if - we should stop.” He shakes his head. “I mean, we’re... We’re massacring these people. Doesn’t it bother you?”_

_Lochemel shrugs._

_“I can’t let it bother me. If I do, then I’m questioning His will. And if he’s wrong about this?” He looks down to the street, to the group of hunters, and shudders. “I can’t let that thought take root.”_

_“What about that girl, Allison? You’ve been watching over her since she was a child-”_

_“I’m not going to question it, Saphtiel. Let it go.” Lochemel flares his wings, then leaps off the edge of the building. Stiles watches Lochemel as he glides down to the street, then land next to the group of angels, watches as his friend takes a struggling form into his arms and flies away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some artistic liberties taken with Laura's body in this chapter, as the actual decomposition process for a person who'd died in her situation would be pretty gruesome. I thought I'd give Derek a little break.
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who is reading, commenting, kudos'ing, and subscribing to this story. The response to this story leaves me staggered every time I see the hits and the subscriptions go up. I love you all! <3
> 
> We're getting close to the end. Only two chapters left!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For where a will is involved, the death of the one who made it must be established. For a will takes effect only at death.”
> 
> Hebrews 9:16-17

When Derek wakes up the next morning, Stiles is gone. He stretches, smiling through the soreness from last night. The angel is stronger than he looks, and Derek is pretty sure he’s going to have some interesting bruises for the next couple of days. He lets his fingers trace over the marks, wincing when he pushes down too hard on a bruise over his right hip.

The shower had been slightly uncomfortable, Stiles’ wings too large to fit. Derek had gotten a large bowl and slowly toweled Stiles’ down, washing come and sweat from his skin in gentle strokes. It had been both peaceful and arousing. He’d taken his time to trace over every inch of Stiles’ skin, amazed that he could touch.

It had led to more, and then passion blotted out everything else. Lust and want had followed them as they fumbled their way to the second bedroom, had ridden them hard throughout the night as they took the time to learn each other in the dark.

Derek's boxers are nowhere to be seen, but he finds his pants on the other side of the room from the bed. Slipping them on, he pads, barefoot, out into the main room of the cabin. Morning light is fighting through the grime on the windows, casting the room in a soft glow, and Derek catches movement out of the corner of his eye. There's a flash of gold, and he smiles softly, heading towards the front door. 

Stiles is waiting on the porch, wings folded tight to his body. Derek can read the tension in his shoulders and stands next to him, looking out over the lake. 

"Good morning," Stiles says, then coughs. "It's nice out. Sunny."

It's stilted and uncomfortable, and suddenly Derek feels every mark on his skin like a brand, searing into his flesh, painful and raw. He doesn't know what to do with the feeling, the uncomfortable silence that seems too harsh in the morning light.

He wishes he'd put on a shirt. He can see his from the corner of his eye, forgotten in the yard from the day before.

Stiles turns to look at him. Derek doesn't try to meet the angel's eyes, just keeps watching the light on the water, the slight breeze through the trees, looking at anything but Stiles.

"So... Last night." Stiles shifts, his feathers fluttering as his whole body shivers. "I've... That's not something that happens... upstairs."

There's a warm hand against Derek's, fingers searching for the places between his. 

"I don't know how to do..." There's a squeeze, tentative, but firm. "This. The after part." Stiles laughs, and Derek can hear the embarrassment in the way Stiles' voice shakes. "I didn't really know what I was doing in the _during_ part, either."

Derek squeezes back, finally raising his eyes to meet Stiles'. 

"You did fine."

“So, what’s next?” Stiles asks, looking at where his and Derek’s fingers are intertwined. Derek runs his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand and thinks.

“Probably back to Wyoming,” he says. “There’s nothing really here for me now.”

He looks up at Stiles and is surprised to find him smiling brightly.

“Good. It’ll be quicker this time, since you won’t have to walk. If we don’t run into any problems, we should be able to get there in a month or so.”

Derek feels his heart start to speed up at the word _we_. His first instinct is to shy away from the happiness that’s rolling over him, to deny it, but he fights it and starts to grin.

“You think you can handle that? You said we’d be here in a day, and look how long that took.”

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard, Derek’s surprised they don’t come tumbling out.

“Like I said, _if we don’t run into any problems_. I don’t know if you noticed, but you attract trouble like honey attracts bees.”

Derek laughs long and hard.

“Let’s get packed up,” he presses a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips, euphoric in the freedom of it. “I don’t want to waste any time, especially since it’s going to take three times longer than you say.”

Stiles shuts him up by pulling him back in for a deeper kiss. They get lost in lips and teeth and tongues, but then Derek pulls back enough to snag a breath. He presses his forehead against Stiles’, smiling softly.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”

It doesn’t take long to pack up. Derek does what he can to secure the cabin before they leave, closing the door and wedging it shut. If someone wants to use the cabin for shelter, they’ll be able to get the door open, but wild animals won’t be able to get inside. He walks to Laura’s grave and says his goodbyes. Stiles hangs back, watching from beyond the edge of the trees.

Derek and Stiles are discussing where they’re going to stop off on their way to Wyoming - no big cities, Derek insists, but Stiles argues that they’ll need to stop somewhere relatively big if they’re going to be able to find provisions - when the path is cast in dark shadow and a rush of wind blocks out the sound of the forest.

Derek’s hand is on his gun before he’s even aware of the movement, and Stiles has pushed himself in front of Derek, his wings spread wide.

“Stiles,” the angel says, and Derek recognizes him from New York, all black wings and righteous anger.

“Lochemel.” Stiles keeps himself between Derek and the new angel, but the tension in his shoulders lessen and his wings drop slightly.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lochemel asks, folding his wings in tightly and gesturing towards Derek. “Are you really that much of an idiot that you’d get involved with a _human_?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Stiles scoffs. He folds his wings and takes a step towards Lochemel. “I know about you and Allison.”

Derek sees Lochemel freeze at the name. Stiles must see the flinch, too, because he’s suddenly frowning, concern painted in the lines of his body.

“What happened?” He asks, reaching for the other angel. Lochemel steps back, out of Stiles’ reach.

“You weren’t the only one to know,” Lochemel says, and it sounds like it’s being ripped from his soul. “She was found, and she was killed.” He closes his eyes, shudders.

“Oh, hell.” Stiles says, voice broken. “I’m... Loch, I’m so sorry.”

“Then you need to _stop_.” Lochemel steps forward, grabs Stiles’ shoulders in a too-tight grip. Derek can see red marks forming under the other angel’s fingers, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care.

“You need to let him go, Saphtiel. You need to leave with me and never come back. You can’t-” Lochemel’s head drops, voice cracking. “I can’t see it happen to someone else, to you. It’s too much.”

Stiles is shaking his head no, his whole body is shaking. Derek can see it in the way his wings tremble.

“Loch, I.. I can’t. I can’t do it. You don’t underst-”

“Fuck you, I don’t understand!” Lochemel pushes Stiles away. “I _saw it_ ,” he cries. “I saw them throw her into the pits, heard her screaming as she died. I _loved_ her, Stiles.”

Lochemel turns away, his wings a black wall between him and Stiles.

“Either you let him go, or I tell the New York host.”

It’s said on a whisper. 

“Lochemel.” Stiles takes a step forward, stops.

“I’ll be back in an hour for your decision.”

And then he’s gone, lifting into the air in a rush of black wings.

Stiles is still, watching Lochemel disappear into the sky. He doesn’t turn to face Derek. Derek walks forward, presses his hand over the red marks that are already fading on Stiles’ shoulder.

“You okay?”

Stiles nods, then places his hand over Derek’s. He turns, letting Derek’s hand drop, and steps forward until he’s pressed against Derek. Stiles rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, pressing his nose into the crook of Derek’s neck. Derek leans in, wraps his arms under the bulk of Stiles’ wings and holds him tight.

“We have to leave now,” he says, fervent against Derek’s skin. “We have to go.”

“Stiles,” Derek threads his hand in Stiles’ short hair. “What does it mean that he’ll tell the host?”

Stiles pushes away, suddenly furious.

“What’s it matter? If we leave now, he won’t be able to follow us, we’ll be safe.” He’s shaking, trembling, and all Derek wants to do is pull him close and calm him down.

“What’s it mean?” He asks, pushing instead.

“No, you asshole. I’m not giving this up, not right after we’ve found each other. I _won’t_. I’ve had to give up so much already,” and he’s stumbling towards Derek, pulling him close and pressing desperate kisses to his mouth and face. Derek lets him, kisses him back, then places his hands on Stiles’ face, pulling him back so he can look into his eyes.

“What’s it mean.”

Stiles pushes away, stomps off. Derek watches the tense line of his shoulders. Stiles raises his wings, resettles them, and finally turns to face Derek. He runs a hand over his face. He looks tired and sad.

“It means they’ll kill me _and_ you.” Stiles sighs. “I just... I don’t care, I’ll keep you safe. They won’t take us.”

Derek smiles, just a little. It feels tighter than before, the muscles refusing to fall into the correct shape.

“Stiles, come here.”

The angel turns away, hunches in on himself. Derek steps forward and brushes a hand over the golden expanse of his wings. Stiles shudders, then faces Derek. His eyes are bright, face pulled tight. Uncertainty is written in every line of his body, and Derek wishes he could do something to erase it. Instead, he presses a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips, tries to express the feeling that’s building inside of him with every breath through soft touches and quiet sighs.

“We have an hour,” he whispers. “Let’s not waste it.”

Stiles looks like he’s going to cry, but he presses himself against Derek, desperate and wanting.

They make love outside, bodies pressed against each other until it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Stiles keeps whispering things like _don’t leave me_ and _stay_ against Derek’s skin, and Derek tells him _never_ and _yes_ , and they both know it for the lie it is.

Lochemel finds them sitting on the front step, Derek sitting a step down from Stiles, who has his arms wrapped tightly around him. Stiles tightens his grip when Lochemel lands, but then lightens his touch, presses soothing fingers into Derek’s shoulders, and stands up.

“Let’s go,” he says, not looking at Derek as he walks past him. “And you swear to me, on everything that you find holy and everything that you don’t, that he will be safe, do you understand me? Because if I find out that anything’s happened to him, I will not rest in my vengence.”

Stiles’ eyes are burning with light, and Lochemel takes a step back, nodding.

“I promise.”

“Then let’s go. I can’t... Let’s go.”

He leaps into the sky before Lochemel, who looks at Derek and nods before following.

Derek watches them fly away until they’re just two specks in the sky, sitting on the porch step until the sun dips beneath the horizon and he can’t see anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to the end, folks! Huge thanks to everyone who've been part of the ride the whole way. I have so much love for all of you.
> 
> If you want to follow my random thoughts and ramblings, you can find my tumblr [here.](http://p1013.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves.”
> 
> Song of Solomon 3:2

It takes Derek considerably longer than a year to get back to Wyoming. Derek doesn’t know why, but he hangs around his family’s cabin, waiting, for almost three months. He knows Stiles isn’t going to come back, that he’s seen the last of the angel. Knows that there isn’t anything he can do to change it, but he still stays. He cleans the windows and the counters, lays flowers on Laura’s grave, and plays a golden feather between his fingers, remembering.

When he finally puts his feet to proverbial pavement, it’s harder going than he remembers. New York seems to stretch out forever before him, and he finds himself wandering aimlessly west, rather than with the concentrated determination that had led him east. He feels the lack of a map like an ache in his chest. At least, that’s what he says to explain the gentle but unyielding pressure against his ribs.

It’s two years later when he gets back to Wyoming, stumbling upon the old cabin and camp that he’d left so long ago. There are the remains of notes and maps with ranges sketched across them, but they’re tattered and some fall to dust under his hands.

He tidies up the cabin, starts hunting with his handmade bow and foraging in the nearby woods. He digs a vegetable garden next to the cabin in the early spring. It takes him two weeks to get to and from the Walmart in Riverton to raid it for seeds, and even then, he’s not sure if anything will grow. There’s a stream nearby where he gets fresh water every morning. He bathes every few days, the water cold and bracing. He stops shaving and grows a beard the Brawny man would be proud of. It doesn’t take long for Derek to fall into a slow rhythm of wake up, hunt or till, check for signs of humanity nearby, and then fall into a deep sleep.

It’s quiet and peaceful, things he knows he used to yearn for. But when the leaves start to turn and the air starts to grow chilled and sharp - his favorite time of year, the whole world painted in reds and golds - he realizes that, even here, there is something missing.

When he dreams, it’s all golden light and warmth and aching tenderness. He wakes up gasping most nights, hard and so filled with helpless rage and grief, he doesn’t know what to do.

_It was just five days,_ he reminds himself, pressing his hands against his eyes until it hurts. _It was five days two years ago. Forget him. Move on._

He still has a golden feather tucked into his worn pack, the golden color dull and muted from age.

He starts having visitors once springs breaks through winter’s icy grip. Just a few people at first, but more and more as time goes on. They all have the same story to tell, that the angels have disappeared, that the danger has passed. Derek doesn’t really believe them at first, but he eventually digs a dusty radio out from a closet, slots a few precious batteries into the back, and listens in stunned silence as it clicks onto a simple transmission, repeated over and over again.

_The angels have left. There is a recovery station in Riverton. If you can hear this, start heading west on 136, east on 138, or south on 789 if you’re south of Campbell Livestock, north if you’re north of Hudson. The angels have left. There is a recovery station in Riverton. If you can hear this -_

Derek snaps the radio off, takes the batteries out, and puts it back into the closet. He starts washing extra blankets and getting potatoes and carrots and lettuce from the garden. He goes hunting more often, smokes and salts the meat.

He gets used to having guests, though he’s still not what most people would call social. He’s quiet and withdrawn when anyone stays the night. He keeps himself carefully apart, and no one hangs around for long.

It’s been almost three and a half years since he last saw Stiles, almost five since the angels first came and bathed the world in fire and ash. The sun is rising, blinding Derek when he opens the front door to wait for his next guest. He’d gone hunting the day before, there’s nothing he needs to pick from the garden, and even though there are chores that could be done, he sits in a handmade rocking chair on his porch and tries to enjoy the early morning light.

He’s reading _Of Mice and Men_ for about the fiftieth time when he sees someone in the distance, heading towards the cabin. He puts the book down and waits, running through a mental checklist of all the things he’ll need for a short guest.

_Blankets, extra food, water for drinking and bathing._

When the man gets close enough for Derek to see details, he thinks he’s hallucinating. He has short cropped brown hair and broad shoulders. His clothes are loose-fitting, as if he doesn’t like the feel of fabric on his skin. There’s a pack, much like the one Derek has, slung over his shoulders. And when he walks up the front steps, finally close enough for Derek to see, he has smiling, amber eyes.

“Stiles.” It feels like something’s been ripped from Derek, like someone has reached into his soul and torn a piece of it out.

“Hey. Long time, no see.” Stiles grins at him, eyes bright and mouth wide.

Derek can’t breathe. His fingers feel numb. All he can see is the impossibility of Stiles before him, looking so achingly real that Derek can only think that he’s finally lost his mind.

“I had to make a trade,” Stiles says, shifting the pack off of his shoulders and onto the ground. There’s a red triskelion painted on the front. Stiles kneels before Derek, resting his hands on Derek’s knees.

“When I told Him that I was going to come after you, no matter what, He told me I had to make a trade.”

Stiles crowds closer, spreading Derek’s legs until he’s pressed into the space between them. His hands trail up Derek’s thighs, run fleetingly over his stomach and chest, until they’re cupping Derek’s face gently. Stiles is so close, Derek can count the freckles that dot his skin, the individual lashes that frame his beautiful amber eyes.

“So I did.” Stiles whispers against his lips, and then they’re kissing, all give and take, heat and heartbreak. Derek wraps his hands around Stiles’ neck and pulls him closer, still disbelieving the truth his fingers tell him. That Stiles is really here, is warm and close and _real_ in his arms.

They pull apart, panting, Stiles laughing and smiling and wrapping himself around Derek so that they’re pressed together from chest to hips. His arms are tight around Derek, fingers pressing hard enough into skin to leave bruises.

Derek feels like he’s finally come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, guys. I can't believe I've finished this story. It's not perfect, it's not anything groundbreaking, but it's mine and it's done, and I am so pleased, I can't even.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely sister, [gusthemoose](http://gusthemoose.tumblr.com) for all of her help and support while I was working on this. Same goes to [virtualdon](http://virtualdon.tumblr.com) for her cheerleading and beautiful art.
> 
> And, finally, HUGE thanks to all of you who have followed this story from the beginning. Thank you for subscribing. Thank you for commenting. Thank you for the kudos. You guys have brought so much happiness to my life during this process, and know that I powered through the harder sections of this story for you!
> 
> Follow me [on Tumblr](http://p1013.tumblr.com) if you want to keep track of my other fics. There's a lot in the works, and you can find random ficlets on my Tumblr as well.
> 
> And again, THANK YOU EVERYONE!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [zainclaw](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com) and my unhealthy obsession with angelic mythos and apocalypses.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so if you see any typos or errors, please let me know!


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